


Well Suited

by punkascas (earlwyn)



Category: Project Runway (US) RPF, Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Project Runway Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Dean, Crack Treated Seriously, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean in Glasses, Designer Dean, Drug Use, Fashion Designer Dean, Friends to Lovers, HIV/AIDS, Haphephobia, Holding Hands, Intimate partner abuse, Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Model Castiel, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Abuse, Past Castiel/Other(s), Past Dean Winchester/Cain, Pining, Reality TV, Sexual Content, Smoking, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlwyn/pseuds/punkascas
Summary: More glorified tailor than fashion designer, Dean wins the chance of a lifetime to appear on Project Runway's new menswear season. Pressures of competition, getting along with his fellow designers, and being filmed 24/7 are one kind of torture. But nothing compares to his horror when he realizes his growing crush on model, Castiel. The cameras don't pick up on that stuff, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's around 35k of this fic written so far but it isn't yet complete. I plan to complete it eventually, and will update as I finish more chapters. The first ten chapters I'll be updating on a weekly basis (or as close to that as possible, depending on my work and travel schedule).
> 
> Beta graciously provided by the cutest boy in the whole world, [Mango](http://amazinmango.tumblr.com/), and the absolutely fabulous, amazing [Vivvi](http://destielsimpalatardis.tumblr.com/). You should go check out their blogs. Also, you can come say hi to me or yell at me for updates [at my blog](http://punkascas.tumblr.com/).

"You're going, Dean. You can't just turn them down."

Even a shitty Skype connection can't blunt Sam's tenacity. Dean's baby brother is like a draft horse, all but stomping his hooves on the other side of the internet, keyed up and raring to go. The video froze five minutes ago into pixelated abstract, but Dean doesn't need visual proof to be able to picture Sam's expression. It'll be that right mix of stubborn and concerned, perfect bait for a guilt trap.

He feeds another fold into the sewing machine, adding a contrasting seam to the lapel of the mock-up suit jacket he's making for Frank's new collection.

"You know you can't, like, literally make me go."

He has to shout a bit to be heard. In the mess of preparation for the launch of the spring line, his laptop got stashed on top of a box of fabric samples on the other side of the room, occupying the only free surface in his cramped apartment.

"Even if you flew all the way out here from California and physically packed the suitcase for me . . . I kick, man. Your shins would never make it to the airport."

The video lurches back to life for a moment as Sam flops backwards onto his bed with his phone, groan sounding like a dying cow over the connection. Staccato frames show glimpses of a blue bedspread, then the shoulder seam of Sam's grey t-shirt, then the wet ends of his droopy too-long mop of hair. Sam must have just come back from the gym before he called. Wednesdays he has an early finish, leaving him time in the afternoon to stress-lift weights and nag Dean.

"You're being ridiculous," Sam points out, all wise and patient, like he's the older sibling here. "You know that, right? You went to the auditions. And you went to the call-backs. Why bother doing any of that if you planned to turn them down when they offered you a spot?"

Dean waits, but Sam doesn't follow up, so it's not a rhetorical question. Sam wants a real answer. The thing is, Dean doesn't know if he has one.

When Sam dropped him an email last summer saying that he'd sent in the application for Dean to appear on _Project_ Runway's new menswear season, Dean ripped him a new one. He wrote back with as many curse words and exclamation points as possible to make it clear that _under no circumstances_ was he interested in doing the show and absolutely did not approve of Sam applying for him without his permission.

Then he got the phone call inviting him to attend the nearest auditions in Minneapolis.

He waited until six in the morning day-of before he allowed himself to be convinced to drive down. The call-backs in Chicago were the same. At the last minute he loaded up two huge suitcases of junk and ideas into the back of the Impala and took her on her first road trip in almost a decade. He talked to the judging panel of past winners whose names he was suppose to recognize but didn't, and spewed the appropriate bullshit about where he draws inspiration from, and had his tiny, embarrassing moment fangirling Tim Gunn. But he did it all knowing that it wasn't real. That it couldn't happen. That none of it meant anything.

Now he has a printed PDF stalking the corner of his cutting desk, waiting for him to sign away the rights to his life for six weeks. All in return for a free plane ride, an extended stay in the dirtiest, loudest city in America, and a chance to win a hundred grand. Who the fuck would take that deal?

Like, okay, sure: the money would be nice. Dean isn't stupid. But he's been doing fine getting by on way less for his entire life. He can live without being rich. More importantly, he has standards. He doesn't need the stress the trip would generate and he definitely doesn't need a thousand cameras pointed at him every second of the day, recording his every move. What Frank pays him is enough to cover his meager needs. Sheer practicality insists that it makes more sense to stay at his _paying job_ than to lose two months worth of salary to gamble on a reality show that he stands no chance of winning.

Technically there's a second half to the grand prize. Not the car (because fuck if Dean would ever drive anything other than the Impala), but the chance to show a collection at New York Fashion Week. A collection that he designs. A collection that represents him: his ideas and his aesthetic. A collection that would give him the credibility to call himself a fashion designer. And, well. Maybe once in the distant past Dean might have wanted that. Back when there was something about him worth sharing with the world.

Things change.

Every step of the audition process Dean was so sure that this was nothing he wants or can have, and yet every step has brought him closer to getting it. _I just really didn't think about it_ is not an answer Sam will be happy to hear. It's that kind of thinking that screwed Dean in the first place.

The machine falls quiet as he finishes his stitch. The resulting silence hangs thick and solid in the air. Handing over the opportunity to Sam to call him out on his cowardice, he snaps the tail end of the remaining thread with his teeth and doesn't say anything.

Sam waits a few more moments, and then: "Dean? Hello? Did Skype drop?"

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I'm still here." He scrubs at his forehead. The band-aid he plastered around his finger after stitching through his nail two days ago scratches against his skin. "Look, man—"

"Hey, I get it," Sam interrupts, voice soft. Dean resents the hell out of it. "I really do, okay?" From that tone, no one would ever believe Sammy is only a third year law student. He has that patronizing, understanding lawyer shtick _down_. "You don't like change. You don't want to get on a plane. You don't like to leave your creepy clothes-nest of an apartment—"

"Hey! Apartment-slash-workshop-slash-home office."

"Yeah, no," Sam laments with real disappointment. "Not even as a working theory at this point."

And okay, fine. His cramped studio may be more stacks of fabric and sample boxes and racks of clothes with a single bed jammed into a spare corner than it is a traditional living space. But it's above Frank's store and that means Dean doesn't need to actually _go anywhere_ except to the corner place maybe once a week to buy groceries. And even that he can usually get around by ordering take-out. It may not be most people's preferred lifestyle, but it's the lifestyle that works for him.

"You can't throw away an opportunity like this," Sam prattles on. "I'm not going to let you. Even if, yeah, I have to take time off school to haul your ass to New York myself. Dean, I'm serious," he tacks on, just in case Dean doubted there for a second. "You keep letting things hold you back. You deserve better than you let yourself have."

Sam's voice breaks on that last bit, like he's really upset. Like he really believes Dean's life is nothing but one long, controlled descent into a black hole, and Dean is just too stupid or stubborn to grab the last safety rope Sam keeps trying to offer to him.

It's a fantastic and flattering assumption. The fact that it may be true—well, that's just the icing on the cake.

"It wasn't a death sentence," Sam says suddenly, all quiet and delicate. "You know that. It's been eight years now and you're fine; you're completely _fine_. You don't have to stop living just because—"

"Just—" He bumps his fist against the desk, soundless instead of the hard thud he intended. Like he once would've done back when things were different. A decade ago he was all cocky smiles and quick one-liners, good company at the bar every night. Now he's just so tired. "Just stop talking about it, okay? Please."

There are a lot of definitions for _fine_ and they've never agreed on one when it comes to him. The last thing he can deal with right now is a repeat conversation about how he needs to _get over it already_ or find a therapist or take even more pills. One day he's going to close the blinds, lock the door, and stop taking Sam's calls. Retreat into this safe world he's built himself, just him and his sewing machine. That's what they advise for addicts, right? You got to go cold turkey or you'll never kick the habit. He's sure a therapist would love to hear all about his theories about how people are just like drugs. They destroy you from the inside out.

Sam probably doesn't think he gets it. But he does. He's never wondered why Sam worries about him so goddamn much. It's just that being reminded how broken he is doesn't help him figure out how to fix it.

"Look," he starts, because, shit, he _tries_. He's _trying_. "It's not about that stuff. I don't—I don't want to be on TV. I fucking hate having my picture taken. I won't even turn on my webcam for you. This isn't one of your internships, man. This isn't an opportunity. It's a freaking reality show. It's all fake. It has nothing to do with real fashion or real design. And besides, I'm not a designer, Sammy. I'm a _tailor_."

That should be it. Final statements made; verdict registered. Except draft horse might have been too generous for Sam when he sets his mind to something. Ravenous pit bull is more like it.

"Then where the hell is half my wardrobe from, Dean? Are you going to tell me that the Specials rack in the back of the store is all Frank's designs? That Frank's randomly experimenting with print and fabric choice now?"

Dean loves Sam but sometimes he hates the kid too. "Okay, so. So sometimes I make stuff. So whatever. That shit's _personal_ , Sammy. Just because you and, like, two people in freaking _Duluth, Minnesota_ like it, where it's a choice between me or _Dress Barn_ —"

"It's not just me," Sam argues. "And it's not just a couple walk-ins. Dean—" He makes a frustrated sound, like he's trying not to swear, like a good little lawyer. Why curse when instead you can lay out a devastatingly logical argument? "If you'd move to a place that's not the back-end of nowhere, you could have your own store. The judges for the show liked your clothes. The producers liked them. All of my friends here ask where I get my clothes from. I mean, hell, people have been asking me since you started making stuff for me when I was a kid. You're a good _designer_ , Dean. And now you have a chance to actually, for once, _do_ what you like. Most people would be shitting themselves from excitement."

He opens his mouth to tell Sam how he's not _most people_ anymore when Sam, probably predicting that old stand-by, overrides him.

"No, look, no. I don't care what your issues are. This is too rare a chance to let you pass on," Sam charges ahead, more determined and self-righteous than Dean's heard since Sam was fourteen and making another one of his last stands against Dad. "We'll get you some Xanax to deal with the cameras if necessary. But you're going, Dean. You're doing this."

 

* * *

 

Sam kept the part of the application that asked for personal history respectfully vague, considering.

It lists as straightforward facts the first thirty-two years of Dean's life. That he was born in Lawrence, Kansas; that they moved all over the place growing up after their mom died in a house fire; that Dean started to make clothes out of thrift store and rummage sale finds in order to keep up with his little brother's growth spurts when their budget couldn't otherwise cut it. That their father's passing when Dean was twenty-one finally let them settle down for a few years in California and gave Dean the freedom to swing his attention to fashion full-time. It mentions that Dean completed almost two years at a community college with the intention to transfer to a four-year and major in design, but dropped out in the middle of his second year due to health reasons. A few months later, he moved to Duluth and worked his way up from apprentice to master tailor under well-known designer Frank Devereaux of the international brand Devereaux Suits.

It's impersonal and dry and makes Dean sound like one of those people with their photos on the back of book jackets or grimacing in a suit on the staff section of a corporate website.

If Dean had written it, it might have said something like this:

His dad left him a black 1967 Chevy Impala when he died and his mother left him a 1974 Brother XL 2010 sewing machine when she died, and together they both gave him Sam. That totals his family, the three major loves of his life.

When he was twenty-four, and finishing midterms for his second year in school, he got sick. At first he thought it was the flu. He told his teachers it was the flu and that he'd make up the work later. The doctors at the free clinic told him it was the flu and prescribed him heavier antibiotics when two weeks passed and he was still laid up in bed. Cain made him tomato-rice soup just like his mom used to make, and put wet washcloths on his head, and held him like he meant something when they had sex and Dean was too exhausted to be into it.

Cain was his first serious relationship. Cain was his first boyfriend, the first person Dean ever lived with that wasn't blood family, the first person he ever said "I love you" to and _meant_ it, as much as he means it in those rare times he's said it to Sam. Cain kept Dean together after Dad died, when Sam was sixteen, and still a minor, and Dean had to sue for guardianship at the same time he had to plan a funeral. Cain made them wait a whole eighteen months after the funeral before he agreed they could date, so Dean could be sure about his feelings, and the age gap, and the gay thing. Cain taught him what sex between two men looked like, and withstood all of Dean's bullshit shame issues that Dad had saddled him with over his sexuality, and over fashion, and never made a sound of hurt over the fact that Dean wanted to keep it a secret that they were dating. Cain paid his tuition to go to school and invited Dean to move in with him rent-free and photographed the first clothes Dean ever made because he _wanted_ to and not because someone _needed_ him to.

They were together for a year and a half by the time Dean got sick. In all that time, never once did Cain say a goddamn word that there should be a concern. Never once did Dean protest when Cain preached the superiority of barebacking, thinking that skin-on-skin meant intimacy and love, and not possession or predation.

Until the results came back. Until some clever fresh-faced doctor at the clinic finally ran the right tests. There in the exam room, clutching the paperwork still warm from the printer and smelling sickly sweet of toner, Cain had cupped Dean's tear-streaked cheek and cocked that eyebrow of his and purred, "Now you'll always carry my mark, baby boy. Just like it should be."

That's when everything came out: his relationship with Cain; all the times Cain cheated and the ways Dean chose to ignore it; the reasons Dean let someone fuck him so many times without a condom when everyone knows the basics to STD prevention.

How Dad turned out to be right, in the end. That being gay only makes you dirty and makes you dead.

Medical necessity forced Dean out of the closet, out of school, and by consequence out of California altogether. With no place to live, no job, no qualifications, and with a death sentence he might spread from something as small as drinking out of the shared milk carton in the fridge, there was no way he could stay. Eight months later, he finally found a phone to call Sam from Duluth, with a job selling suits at Frank's shop, and the potential to work his way back towards something masquerading as a real life.

He takes his pills to keep his immune system from collapsing under the harsh Minnesota winters, works his fingers to the bone translating Frank's designs from paper to tangible, wearable clothes, and is careful to not touch anyone. No one. Not ever. Doesn't even bother to look anymore. Doesn't like to leave his apartment unless it's to pick up a refill prescription or his order from the drive-thru. He learned his lesson what happens when you expose yourself to the world, and fuck everything if he's ever going to expose the world back. Cain's mark stops with him.


	2. Chapter 2

The day he found the want ad for a salesperson in Frank's store remains one of the few serendipitous moments of Dean's life. Frank is, if anything, more recalcitrant and reluctant to interact with the world than Dean could ever hope to be. He has a strong streak of antagonism towards the fashion industry, a feeling that seems mutual judging by opinions expressed in the couple industry publications the store subscribes to, developed after years of being a big name on the East Coast before his wife and kids died of carbon monoxide poisoning in some freak home accident. Rumor has it that's what broke what was left of Frank's tolerance for the industry, and broke the industry's tolerance for Frank right back.

"Nothing but a shit-for-brains high school popularity contest," begins the classic rant.

It can make Frank difficult to work with. But his suits are one of the standards for American menswear, right up there Brooks Brothers, so Dean and everyone else has little choice but to put up with Frank's worse personality traits in compensation.

Not that Dean dislikes Frank. On the contrary. Since the diabetes ruined Frank's eyes and crippled his hands, Dean operates as his second-in-command, doing all the construction for the newest designs. The position comes with a couple perks. Renting out the studio space above Frank's store is one of them. Getting to sell some of his own designs in the back of the store is another. Frank offering to drive him to the airport is, apparently, a hereto unknown third.

"Don't let them make you go through those new-fangled bio-scanners," Frank warns, flicking on the turn signal to merge into the drop-off lane at departures. "The government records your brain signals. Got some kind of fancy computers that can tell what you're thinking."

Dean knows nothing about technology—he needed Sam to talk him through setting up his router over the phone when he first moved in—but he's pretty sure that's not true. Still, with Frank, you pick your battles.

"Noted."

"And don't let those squealing pigs in New York tell you anything you know not to be true." Frank stops the car with a lurch in front of the curb, twisting to glower at Dean from behind square, thick-rimmed glasses. Dean blinks back in confusion. "Let's get one thing straight here, muffin: I don't employ schmucks. You keep your fingers busy and your head screwed on straight, and you should do all right. Your job's waiting here if you want it when you get back."

That almost sounds like a _I believe in you_ speech. Careful to downplay the heat creeping into his cheeks, Dean pulls an exaggerated grimace. "Ah, jeez, Frank. Are you really being nice to me right now? Seriously? That's how we're going to leave this?"

"Get out of my car, you fruitcake," Frank grumbles, restoring nature's intended balance. "You're wrinkling the upholstery,"

Dean smiles and, for one crazy moment, dares as much as contact as he can brave to pound the seatback above Frank's shoulder. "Stay classy, Frank. See you in six weeks."

 

* * *

 

Duluth's airport claims to be international, but in reality it only flies between Minneapolis and Chicago. The coach ticket the producers arranged for him has a fifty-minute layover at O'Hare before it lands at LaGuardia. He has to pay extra (and out of his own pocket) to get around the weight restrictions on luggage.

Most of the weight comes from his equipment. With the amount of supplies they're expected to provide themselves, Dean doesn't know why the producers stopped short of instructing designers to bring their own sewing machines. Though they probably need that for product placement. At the last minute, he shoved eight black t-shirts and eight button-ups into a side pocket as personal clothing, with one nicer suit in case they go somewhere fancy. His meds and contacts stay in his carry-on.

New York in April is both wetter and warmer than Minnesota. Dean feels like he's sweating through his t-shirt, flannel already tied around his waist, as he hauls his giant suitcase around looking for a guy holding a dry-erase board that says: PROJECT RUNWAY: C. NOVAK, D. WINCHESTER. People swarm everywhere, walking faster than human beings should without the threat of imminent death, and cutting in front of Dean at random intervals so he has to duck and dodge and babble frightened apologies to their backs.

In Duluth, especially in winter, it's possible to go months without seeing another human being on the street outside of a car. When the air temperature can burn exposed skin dead in under five minutes, no one fancies going for a nice walk that's not on their basement treadmill or in a heated gym. That, and the sprawling views of Lake Superior, are some of the main reasons Dean likes Duluth.

A lady in killer stiletto heels shoots him the dirtiest look when he backs his suitcase into her in the arrivals hall. It happens in his clumsy attempt to retreat from a Pakistani family with two young kids. He wishes he could write off her sour death-glare as a reason not to wear shoes like that in a freaking airport. Instead he finds himself obsessively wanting to explain to her how kids deserve to be protected. How, out of everyone, the people most important for Dean to steer clear of are innocent children.

By the time the driver has loaded Dean's stuff into the trunk of a sedan, Dean doesn't know if he wants to cry or just get very, very drunk. Everything's closed in on him—the people, the humidity—like sealing the lid on a Tupperware container, and he can't even find a private corner to have a panic attack in peace. Not even the car comes with solitude. A second passenger sits next to him in the back, already buckled in by the time Dean opens the door.

She looks like a young punk, not more than high school age. Ripped skinny jeans and black boots and one side of her long, blonde hair shaved off. She can't be old enough to drive, let alone old enough to appear on reality shows.

"Um. _Yeah_?" she challenges after a few minutes of Dean staring, with enough attitude to make the most hardened New Yorker blanch.

"Nothing," Dean says, embarrassed at being caught. He snaps his head to look straight in front of him. "I was just wondering if your sixth period math class is missing you."

"I'm twenty," so- _totally_ -not-a-teenager sneers. "Maybe you should get your bifocals checked, grandpa."

With his thumb, he nudges the wire-frames self-consciously up his nose. "Hey. Airplanes are really freaking dry, okay? Glasses are better for your eyes. And they're regular prescription lenses, FYI."

Brat punk snorts. " _FYI_ , the 90s called and want their slang back. And the only thing you're going to be seeing through them is me kicking your ass once the competition starts."

Strangely, that's one of the most comforting things someone could say to him in this moment. She isn't put off by him for any reason other than the fact he's a rival. Her competitive streak revs some similar engine in him, a part of himself that he hasn't felt rumble to life in years and a pleasant distraction from the claustrophobic compression of the airport. It doesn't make everything okay—it's not her fault that no high school sex-ed class covers the important shit about how dangerous strangers can be—but it suddenly seems stupid that he shouldn't at least try to enjoy the car ride. There's at least a foot and a half of space in the backseat between him and the girl, still too close but not _unbearable_. And it's not like he's going to have time to catch one of those bus tours through Manhattan once production starts.

He's never seen the city. It might be pretty at sunset.

"Oh, it's on, kid," he promises, and settles back against the town car's leather seats to try to enjoy the view.

 

* * *

 

Due to the lateness of the day, filming won't begin until the next morning, buzzes the hyper-active production assistant who greets them at the front of the apartment building. She has frizzy blonde hair and a collared shirt-sweater combination on, and keeps clutching a clipboard like she'd relish an excuse to smack someone with it. The name tag clipped to her lapel says Becky; the smiley face sticker reminds Dean more of the green Mr. Yuk stickers they used to put on toxic cleaning chemicals back in the day. She checks them in against a list of names on her clipboard—Winchester, Dean and Novak, Claire—and shows them to the apartments they'll share with the other designers for the next six weeks of filming.

"You'll be moved to another building if you're eliminated from the competition, but we require you to remain on location for the entirety of the shoot and to obey the rules set down in the contract you signed," she explains as she leads them up the longest flight of stairs in the world. Claire heaves her duffle up ahead of them like she trained on Everest for the challenge. Dean struggles behind Becky, huffing and sweating. Maybe Sam was right that he should at least get a workout DVD if he keeps refusing a gym membership. "That includes no phone calls and no internet access, even after you've been Auf'ed. It's a pain, I know," Becky adds in a singsong tone, "but we can't have spoilers leaking to the press!"

Over her shoulder, she tosses back a quick, terrifyingly-wide smile.

Dean feels his facial muscles pull into some sort of rictus in return, but he doesn't think it should be labeled a smile.

Becky shows Claire into her apartment that she'll share with three of the female designers and then unlocks the door to the room assigned to Dean.

Upon first inspection, it looks like a fancy version of a hotel room, all soft creams and cool grays. Four single beds dominate the space, positioned against opposite walls in a two-by-two grid. Left of the main door, an open-plan kitchenette stretches along the interior wall, forming a pathway to a darkened room that must be the bathroom.

The exterior wall is the eye-catcher. Made of nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, it presents a view normal people would shit themselves over. Lit up and sparkling in the blue twilight, the Manhattan skyline glows in all her glory, pretty as a postcard.

Dean makes a resolution then and there to go nowhere near that death trap. Of course, just his luck, the only bed free looks to be one of the ones near the windows. His three roommates have already arrived and staked their claim.

"Have fun!" Becky chirps, and slams the door behind Dean like she's scared he might try to make a break for it. Judging from the stony faces staring at him, Dean thinks she might be right.

 

* * *

 

At first glance, it looks to be beard-and-hat central up in here.

The bed closest to the bathroom contains a designer whom Dean mentally dubs Old Guy with Beard. A beat-up baseball cap hides his eyes and his mouth is set in a jowly scowl that looks none too welcoming. Because God invented pettiness to make people feel better, Dean decides that the hat probably hides an advanced stage of male-pattern balding and, based on a rough guesstimate of his age and weight, dude probably chose his bed because he has nighttime incontinence issues.

Bed Number Two sits across from Old Guy's. It belongs to who Dean's going to call Younger Guy with Beard. He looks roughly familiar but Dean can't place him. Apart from looking to be around Dean's age, he has the same kind of burly build and intimidation thing going for him.

The owner of the third bed, between Old Guy's and the windows, is just the top of a dark head and a bunch of playing cards lined out on the sheets in a game of Solitaire.

No one is saying anything—hell, a third of the room isn't even looking at him—but without Becky's electric chatter, the sudden silence is too much, pressing in from all sides. No escape. Dean stares back at them, doing his best impression of deer in the headlights, and swallows.

Younger Guy with Beard shatters the stillness by offering out his hand. "How was your trip, brother? That old sourpuss there is Bobby and the young kid in the corner is Aaron." His smile is a soft thing, kind-hearted and quiet, like he's noticed Dean's a timid animal, liable to bite or bolt at the wrong move, and doesn't want to spook him. "I'm Benny. Welcome to our humble abode. Good to have you here."

 _That's_ where Dean knows him from. Lafitte Louisiana is a small label, but it's been growing steadily over the last few years thanks to social media. Dean's lost hours stalking on his website. Benny's clothes are all linen and earth tones, but somehow manage to still be rugged and stylish. Most of it's streetwear but there's a couple casual takes on the three piece suit that Dean would just die to own. The About page on the label's website has this picture of Benny on a little boat, holding the oars steady with one hand while he helps his wife and primary model Andrea step down from the dock with the other hand. Both of them look straight out of a black and white photograph from the 40s, welcoming and warm and stylish. Dean always thought they were the type of people everyone in their field aspires to be and never quite manages. Creative. Content. In love.

Benny's hand hangs in the air. A few quick steps and Dean could shake his head. But someone might as well ask him to cross the Atlantic on foot for all that his arms dangle like dead weights at his sides. He can't touch. He can't.

He swallows again instead. "I'm Dean. Winchester. I got to pee."

The bathroom's not much of an improvement on the room, small and already cramped with the detritus of his roommates' things. But it's better than being out there. He takes his time unpacking his toiletries. Everything's sealed in plastic bags and plastic holders, but he still wants to be careful that nothing will brush against anyone else's supplies, not even by accident.

From the other side of the door, he can hear conversation starting up again. A gruff, sarcastic voice he can picture belonging to Bobby says something about sticking it through to Fashion Week. The pop of a champagne cork sounds. The producers must have left it for them to celebrate their first night. Someone else laughs, and cheers for a toast echo after it.

A knock on the door is followed by Benny's voice again asking if he wants a glass of champagne. The normal thing to do would be to say yes. To go out there and join them. To raise a glass and celebrate like everyone else. These people could be his friends, or at least friendly acquaintances.

Dean grips the edges of the sink until he's white-knuckled and stares hard at his reflection in the mirror until the knocking goes away and Benny's voice drifts off to join the others.

It has to be this way, he reminds himself. He has to be this way.


	3. Chapter 3

Bright and early the next morning, they begin filming.

The pounding on the door comes at just after six, startling Dean out of a weak, sweat-soaked doze. He can't remember his dreams, but the lingering haze of anxious boredom clings to his skin, raising goose-pimples on his forearms. Everything from his neck down aches, like his subconscious spent the night beating at his back with a baseball bat. Careful, as if navigating the delicacy of real bruises, he tightens his arm around the pillow beneath his chest and squints his eyes open.

The palest of pinks shades the horizon behind the Manhattan skyline, the metal skin of the city reflecting like silver fish scales. The view, the quiet of the morning, soft and gauzy and the city sleeping, instead of being alarming, is almost soothing. If he waited, he could pick out all the corners and angles the sun will catch as it makes it ascent.

Judging from the banging outside the room, no one on this show intends to give him that kind of time. One of his roommates must answer the door because the knocking stops and a second later Becky's chipper voice spikes through the room.

"Good morning, designers!"

Groans echo her in response.

When Dean rolls over onto his back to look, Becky has placed herself in the center between their four beds, clutching her clipboard again and wearing a headset. A three person camera crew is with her. Dean doesn't know if they're already filming, but he pulls the sheet up over his stomach to be safe. National television doesn't want to see his ungroomed belly hair or unattractive skin folds.

"Since this is your first full official day, we wanted to take it easy on you this morning," Becky says, flipping past the first page on her clipboard and reading the instructions. "You have the next forty-five minutes to dress, shower, and eat before the vans will collect you to take you to your first challenge. They're scheduled to leave at seven sharp. We have a tight shooting schedule this season, so I advise you to be at the front of the building by 6:50 if you don't want to get left behind. We won't be filming our 'reality morning' segment this morning, but starting tomorrow, the camera teams will be entering your room no later than 5:30 to film you getting ready for the day. Please make sure you complete anything you don't want on camera before they arrive."

"Um." Aaron, still burrowed in the bed across from Dean's, raises a tentative hand in the air. "So, like. If we want to shower . . .?"

"Oh, you can shower while the camera crews are here. We don't allow filming in any of the bathrooms. But if you choose to enter or exit the bathroom in any state of undress, the contract you signed means you've consented to allow us to show that on screen Though of course, there's also the comfort of your fellow roommates to think about."

"Will we be getting our models today?" Benny asks from the mound of blankets to Dean's right, southern drawl thick with sleep.

"Ooh, someone's eager to get started," Becky twits, and twirls a lock around her finger while smiling. Dean can't tell if the gesture is meant to be flirtatious or if it's supposed to make her seem casual and young, and therefore less intimidating. It fails to achieve either. "You'll meet them tomorrow morning. We're bringing back a twist from previous years and letting designers choose your models before each challenge. But for this first one, we just assigned everyone to whoever." She flaps a hand as though not having models who fit their aesthetic isn't something that skyrockets the blood pressure of most designers.

The flippancy of her words doesn't seem to register for her at all. She segues to a different topic. Gripping the clipboard with both hands, she bounces in place. "Aren't you guys excited! You're also meeting Heidi and Tim this morning!"

 

* * *

 

In an attempt to avoid the chaos of suitcases being flung open and the explosion of toiletries swallowing up the room, Dean winds up trapped in the corner of the kitchenette, clutching his towel and counting down the seconds until he'll have a full eight minutes of peace and privacy in the bathroom. That is, if Aaron hasn't become lost and died in there. That's all the time they have left before they need to meet the vans. With the lip of the counter pinching painfully into his hip, Dean decides the production team might want to re-think giving four adults only forty-five minutes to share a single bathroom in the morning. He can't imagine trying to do this with a camera crew shoved into the tight living space on top of everything.

Given Aaron's age and newness to the industry, his forty years wandering the bathroom don't come as a shock. It's Benny who surprises Dean the most with his morning routine, peering into a fold out mirror from a makeup case propped open on his bed, applying dabs of foundation to the blemished parts of his skin.

He glances over his shoulder with a wince when he catches Dean staring. "Vanity's a devil in us all, brother. Wanting to look nice for the people back home ain't a crime."

So far Dean's managed to avoid thinking too hard about the fact that in three or four months, it won't be just random strangers watching him prance around on their TV. It'll be Frank and their sales assistant Krissy, and Sam with all his buddies in Palo Alto. It'll be the customers at Frank's store and the string-bean pharmacist who fills Dean's scripts and always beams at Dean to "have a great day!" The people who know him and the people who only know his name. They're all going to have non-stop, daily footage of his every subtle twitch and micro-expression. See living proof of the bags under his eyes and the too-thin skin stretched over his wrists.

Soon it's not going to matter what kind of stories Sam tells about him or how much Frank talks him up as impossible to replace. This will change how people see him.

It's not just his designs that might give him away. It's all of him. If he so much as toes an inch out of line, this is going to be the remix of California eight years ago. Stupid, stupid Dean. Just like last time, he missed all the warning signs. He should've known the second he scrawled his signature on that contract that he had effectively poured gasoline all over the dried, brittle straw that amounts to his life in Minnesota. All he needs is one spark of recognition to set it ablaze.

The loneliness he can tolerate. It's the way people look at him. He can't stand having people look at him like that.

 

* * *

 

Once in the van, another production assistant reveals that they're headed for Central Park. She gives her name as Tessa and explains that they'll be shooting both individual walk-up shots for the introduction montage as well as meeting Tim and Heidi who will present the first challenge. She divides them into groups of four based on where they're sitting in the van, and assigns them to one of the four camera crews who will follow them for the run of the show.

Dean's stomach hurts by the time they're finishing up. It's hours later, well past lunch, and the sun is beating hard against the back of his neck, pulling every single freckle to the surface of his skin like a magnet and leaving his cheeks a painful, lobster-bright red.

The first challenge will be all about showing the judges who they are as designers. The only twist is that they have to find their fabric from bolts stashed under benches and in bushes and trees around the park. When Dean watched the show, he never understood how anyone had enough time to come up with a design, let alone be clear on what the challenge rules were. But by the fourth take of Tim and Heidi's scripted interactions, his lower back aches from all the standing around, waiting as the cameras re-set for yet another take from different angle. It's a relief when Charlie, the camera operator assigned to his group for the morning, tells them to run to collect their fabric.

By the time they arrive at the workroom in Parson's School for Design, he is starving, sweaty, and has no idea if he's supposed to be focusing on not blocking another designer in the shot or cutting up his fabric for a design or heading up to the second floor to film more filler content in the video diaries. They seem to expect him to pay attention to all three things at once, and he can't.

Back at Frank's, at home, in Duluth, he can go four or five days without leaving his apartment. Without interacting with another human being beyond the questions Frank bellows up the stairs about the latest garment or sale and Sam's check-in Skype calls. He works, and he watches TV, and he works some more, and his world consists of the images he sees inside his head, the cut of a trouser leg that goes like this or the flare of a jacket hem that swoops like that. It's peaceful. He's made his peace with it.

Nothing is peaceful about this. There are people, always, everywhere. There is noise and chaos and instead of falling into the safe space in his head, he needs to stay constantly aware of his surrounding, hyper-alert like a veteran returned to a warzone.

The idea that he's supposed to come up with a competitive design in this environment is a fucking joke. All he wants to do is sit down someplace secluded and shaded with something ice-cold and sweet to drink, and talk to his brother who knows him and loves him and maybe can convince him why quitting right this moment is a stupid idea.

He does not want to shove his way into the broom closet passing as a break room to eat lunch with eight of the other designers. Screwing on a new lens to her camera, Jody—Charlie's replacement and part of the afternoon shift—explains that attendance is mandatory.

"If we let you," she jokes with a brook-no-argument tone, "you'd all work non-stop without food or sleep. We don't want anyone going to the hospital again like in the early seasons."

A hospital, in fact, sounds great right now. Put him in one of those fucking white, padded rooms for all he cares. As long as it means he can be _alone_.

"I'm going to fucking kill everyone," he pleads, and it's a very near-miss when Jody tries to pat him on the shoulder. He full-body jerks away from her like her fingers might be made from knives.

"You'll get used to it," she says, eying him a little, but not in a way that means she took him literally. "The pace is frantic but it's predictable. You'll catch onto the rhythm in a few days."

The thing is, he thinks, as he creeps into the break room, sticking close to the walls and away from the other designers as much as possible, he wasn't being facetious. Every time someone brushes against him, or turns around to introduce themselves, or ask him a question about his design aesthetic, their faces flash before him as ghosts. Like the walking dead. One little nick of his cutting shears, and he could contaminate not just the other fifteen contestants, but all thirty members of the production crew, the janitorial staff at Parsons, the students attending summer classes. He might jeopardize the whole building, like a bomb waiting to go off.

He finds a vacant corner to eat his sandwich and sits with his back to the other designers. Aaron passes him in the hall on the way back to the workroom, but doesn't try to stop and talk.

He counts it as a win. It means they're learning.

 

* * *

 

This season is designated as the menswear season. That is, in fact, the whole point of why Sam submitted him for the competition. But somehow it still manages to surprise him when sixteen tall, athletic, very _male_ models enter the workroom that evening after the dinner break.

Unlike the female models who dominate the industry but who also only have five to ten years in which to make their career, male models have greater difficulty gaining recognition, but also a far more distant expiration date on commercial beauty. The men invading the workroom don't hold to Project Runway's median model age of about nineteen. Instead they range from the young Asian kid who looks barely old enough to drink legally to a demure, blond man in his late thirties that arrives at Meg's work desk with a purred, "Hey, honey."

A lot of the other designers hug their models at first greeting. Dean opts for clutching the sleeve of the sweater he's hand-stitching and eyeing his model warily from the other side of the work bench.

"HI," the man greets with a smile. He has his hair cut in a low-mid razor fade and speaks with a twinge of a southern accent. "You Dean? I'm Cole. Looks like I'm your model."

"Right," Dean gasps. They need to dress their models in what they've made in the last six hours. Which means Dean has to touch him. But he can't. He absolutely can't. Putting his back to Cole, he shimmies down the pair of skinny, patterned trousers from his mannequin and tosses them over the workbench. "Try those on. Uh. Please. I think there's a partition where you can change. Over there."

 _Over there_ happens to be across the workroom from Dean's station.

None of the other designers are making their models rely on modesty. Half the models have already stripped down to boxer-briefs, a few of them with measuring tapes held up to their chests or wrapped around their waists to make sure their reported measurements are accurate. Dean's the only one who is turning everything into a Victorian production of prudishness.

A bead of sweat trickles down the bridge of his nose. Cole would have every right to scoff and turn around, refuse to work with the designer who's acting like the world's biggest nut job on the first day. _I'm not crazy_ , Dean wants to explain, but doesn't. _I'm just sick. I just want to go home_.

"Sounds good," is all Cole says, and then treks off to the other side of the workroom. Dean lets out a too-loud breath of relief.

Fitting the pants is less of a concern. Tailoring has built his life since leaving California, and he knows how to transform the flat numbers on Cole's measurement card into three-dimensional fabric. When Cole reappears, all he needs to do is eyeball where to hem the raggedy edges of the legs from a distance.

The sweater is the real problem. He combined two different materials to give it texture and to display his knowledge of fabric type, but it's only half done. The front panels exist as separate pieces on the table, and he's still stitching the second sleeve into existence. Careful not to dislodge any of the pins that hold the back together, he holds the bulk of the sweater out at arm's length by the tips of his fingers.

"Uh. Try this on for me? Be careful not to yank it too hard or stick yourself. The structure's pretty delicate still."

Cole's expression scrunches up in disbelief but he does what Dean asks. At least the damn thing looks like it's going to fit appropriately in the shoulders and around the waist.

By the time he's allowed to crawl into bed that night, cameras banished and lights finally off in their room, he doesn't know how he can survive six weeks of this. They have three or four hours in the morning to finish up their designs before the runway show. But that only means more cameras, more shooting instructions, more people to navigate around. More chances of making himself look like some fucked up basket-case who should never have been allowed back into the real world.

The best he can do is pray for elimination. He's got to be the only person in the show's history who would be ecstatic to go home on the first challenge.

 

* * *

 

Watching the show on television, the runway bits take around fifteen or twenty minutes to sit through. Filming those fifteen or twenty minutes, it turns out, takes more like eight hours. Tim assembles them to leave the workroom at noon and leads them upstairs to the runway floor at Parsons. They're given their lunch break while the camera teams set up, and then the next two hours are dedicated to filming the models walk the runway and pose for the cameras without the judges present. Dean shifts his chair away from the others in the green room while they wait and doesn't attempt to talk to anyone.

Every twenty minutes, Becky or Tessa poke their heads in to call various people into the video diary rooms. The idea is they'll turn their comments into a narrative that plays over the footage they shot this morning and yesterday.

The models do their first walk in front of an audience around three, with the cameras focused on the designers, recording their reactions or whispered commentary to each other. Dean winds up sandwiched in the too-cramped chairs between a matronly woman named Naomi and the retro-fashionable Abby.

His final outfit looks well made, but it doesn't fit Cole as well as it could. Cole himself doesn't do much to make it stand out or give his walk much life. It seems bland, all of it, and while Dean knows that should make him happy because it'll help to land him a low score, there's something aggravating about how much worse Cole is making everything look. No, it's not the most inventive design up there today, but it also isn't the worst. At least his hems are finished and his seams don't pucker. A better model would be able to give it some life.

Near the end of the runway, a model appears wearing a hideous tartan suit and bolero tie. But somehow the guy works it, making the choice seem edgy and bold instead of butt-ugly. The smolder and hip check he gives at the end of the runway carry an intensity that's captivating. A round of titters erupt from behind Dean as the model starts back down the runway, Marv leaning across Claire to exchange mocking commentary with Bela.

"Good thing those hems were cut too high. Don't want him to trip!"

"He does look a little wobbly. Maybe the height from up there in Last Ditch Career Move Land is making him dizzy."

Dean doesn't know what they're talking about. The guy is clearly one of the best models up there, if not _the_ best. But even Bobby snorts in amusement, which means everyone else must know something Dean doesn't.

That's not a rare occurrence. People don't realize how much gets revealed in the tiny, day-to-day chats people have between big moments. Not until you stop being able to engage in them.

Dean winds up in the bottom three for being too boring, but not the bottom two for elimination. It leaves him feeling off-balance, dissatisfied and restless for the rest of the night. If only Cole had tried harder on the runway, maybe the judges would have seen something more. The designer who made that tartan suit should have been on the bottom, but she was called safe. Eve went home instead. It's hard not to credit that bit of luck to the model, and the rogue confidence he displayed, even under the mockery of some of the designers.

It would be a relief to be done with reality television, but a tiny, egotistical niggle in his breastbone doesn't want his elimination to come for the wrong reasons. Dean himself may be an ugly person, body and soul tainted, but the things he makes aren't. They're innocent of his defects, tiny glimpses of beauty in a fucked up world. His mom taught him how to sew, and he can't hear the rattle of a stitching needle without thinking about her. Recalling the smell of her shampoo, feeling her arms around him as he sat cradled in her lap, her voice close and happy next to his ear as she helped his tiny hands run fabric through the machine. His very first clothes were for Sam, growing too tall and too long too quick for secondhand thrift finds to cover. That habit has never left him. He always double-checks the length he leaves on his hems, just in case he needs to make a sleeve or a leg longer. Frank gave him the confidence to sew fast and clean, to trust his eye and trust his machine. His clothes come from all of them, each of their touches in his memories woven into the care with which he creates each piece. It's a part of him that Cain never managed to infect, no matter how much he played with Dean's head or fucked up his body.

Dean's not good, but Mom, Sam, Frank—they are. They deserve better than some half-assed attempt. Eight years ago, he failed them in ways he still can't forgive himself for. He owes it to them now to at least _try_ to do better, to be better.


	4. Chapter 4

Aaron goes home on the third challenge.

Dean wants to feel bad about it, but standing alone on that runway while the judges deliberate their respective strengths and weaknesses, the only feeling he can summon is flabbergasted relief when his name is the one called safe to return to the green room.

Someone pivots a key light so it hits Dean right in the eye as Becky barrels ahead with another question.

"What do you think of being in the bottom three times in a row?"

The rhythm to the shooting schedule is becoming more intuitive now that they're in their second week of filming. Tuesday through Saturdays they rotate between runway days, which also include eliminations, model picking and instructions for the next challenge, and workroom days where they spend fourteen hours cutting, sewing, and assembling a new design. This past Sunday they had a rest day, something that Dean suspects having more to do with the unions not allowing the crews to work seven days a week than giving the designers a break.

Mondays could also be considered a day off, the remaining designers scheduled instead to film video diary portions and help provide pick-up shots in the apartments. It should be one of the more relaxing days, with a far more reasonable call time of nine instead of the usual five-thirty. But Dean has quickly learned to dread video diary shoots. Becky and the crew have an uncanny ability to make them feel like a police interrogation.

Today is a workroom day, but he's still being forced to answer impossible questions in one of the all-white interview rooms one floor up.

"Uh. Great," he mutters, squinting and twisting his head away to dodge the light.

The stupid grip or best boy or whatever the fuck they're called is relentless and moves the light to follow him.

"Can you elaborate for me?" Becky presses, white-knuckling her clipboard and leaning so far forward on her stool Dean's surprised it hasn't slipped out from under her yet. They've been at this now for something like twenty minutes and none of Dean's answers seem to appease her. "Does it make you question your abilities as a designer? What are some things that you think might be preventing you from working at your best?"

Being blinded by the lighting crew is the first smart-ass reply on the tip of Dean's tongue. But he bites it back. For all that this is supposed to be a design competition judged by fashion industry big shots, Crowley always seems to be the last to be let go for lunch and dinner calls, when all the food is either cold or gone. It's a lot easier to be a contestant on this show if the crew likes you, or at least doesn't despise your very existence.

Dean does his best to stare straight ahead and doesn't respond.

"Do you think you'll have better chances on this next challenge? Are you planning any kind of comeback?"

How he's supposed to plan a comeback, Dean has no idea. The last time he stood on the runway defending his work (yet again) against the criticism that he can sew well but his designs lack personality (yet again), he wanted to shout at the judges. Never once did he claim to anyone to be a fashion designer. (He's a _tailor_ ; fuck you very much, Sam.)

Cole's performance only emphasizes that discrepancy. This last challenge, fine, Dean can admit that he probably deserved to go home. Swimwear is not his forte, and the trunks and tunic cover up thing he sent down the runway bordered on tasteless. But the second challenge, he swears he would have been safe if Cole had done what Dean asked of him. The jacket he designed did look plain on the outside, but the flash of vibrancy in the lining, and the hand rendered details of the shirt, that's where Dean's design elements shown the brightest. Except goddamn Cole didn't bother to take off or even open the jacket during his walk, despite them rehearsing the wrist flick four times in the work room.

If he thought one of the other models would put up with his shitty neuroses, he'd consider switching to someone with a better walk. But the chances of that happening are zilch, nada, finito. Dean can barely tolerate himself. Expecting a complete stranger to handle it half as well as Cole tolerates him is a pipe dream. He owes the guy some loyalty.

Becky sighs at his silence. "Okay, how about this: of the remaining contestants, who do you think are the worse designers?"

Dean ducks his head and shrugs.

As much as he might dislike some of his fellow designers, like Crowley and his supposed ex-boss Rowena, and then there's the pompous _Marv_ , he isn't going to bad mouth any of them on camera.

"We're really going to need you to give us more than that, Dean."

"Yeah. Uh. Sorry. Uh. The lights are kind of bright? I'm having trouble, uh . . ."

He raises his hand to shield his eyes just as a flash of blue, waif-like eyes gleam in the lights and a dark head leans in front of the camera. She touches Dean's knee with the tips of her fingers. The abrupt contact makes him feel queasy, his muscles stringing up tense and tight in alarm, but the production coordinator ( _Hannah,_ he thinks her name is Hannah) doesn't read like a threat. A faint smile appears on her face as she delicately, surreptitiously withdraws her hand.

"Hey. It's Dean, right? Let's take a short break. Why don't you go outside and get some fresh air. Take some time to think over some answers to Becky's questions. We can pick up the rest of your footage after lunch."

He knows she's probably only doing this because he's not giving them anything they can actually use. But even pretend mercy at this point is a blessing.

 

* * *

 

Feet pounding down the stairs, he slams open the metal fire door to the loading dock and gulps in a desperately needed toxic lungful of smog and humidity. It tastes disgusting, but it's still better than being trapped on the twelfth floor with Becky and the production crew. Outside is a relief. For the first time in two weeks, he isn't being watched or followed by cameras or surrounded by bodies making his vision swim. He's totally, miraculously alone.

Faint movement in his peripheral vision snag his eyes to the left, and mortified disappointment hits his veins like the bad kind of drugs.

There's a guy there, leaning against the rail, watching him. Dark tousled hair shades darker eyes, and a faint moue of curiosity tugs down a corner of a wide, expressive mouth. A plain silver hoop pierces his right ear lobe. Propped on the rail between his elbows rests a book that looks thick enough to be what characters in fantasy novels always refer to as a _tome_.

It takes a couple seconds, but Dean thinks he might recognize him as one of the models. The one that people whisper about. Though the piercing is a new addition.

"Uh. Hi," he stumbles, caught off guard and out of breath. It's a lucky thing he didn't clock the guy when he came barreling through the door.

The stranger doesn't respond. But he also doesn't look away. His arm rests on the open page, wrist dangling off the edge and fingers curling lax around a smoldering cigarette.

In Dean's teenager years, during his stint rebelling in stupid, illegal ways, he had a brief love affair with smoking. Dad never cared much about the underage drinking, as long as he didn't think Dean was stealing from his stash, but smoking was gross and disgusting and made Dean look like the white trash they so obviously were anyway. Back then you could still sometimes find those old cigarette vending machines in truck stops, stale tobacco in retro marketing colors and no ID necessary. The fuzzy-head feeling he got sucking one down behind the back of some building, smoke swirling nauseously against the back of his throat, allowed him what sometimes felt like the only reprieve he got in those days. At least for those five minutes, everything would haze out and disappear, smudge all his worries over Dad and Sam and the other million tiny things that now paint his childhood memories in melancholy browns and nicotine yellow.

A break like that would be nice now.

"Hey. Uh, I hate to ask, but could I . . . ?"

The guy gives a small shake of his head in exasperation—like if Dean hates to ask, why is he doing it anyway?—but proving that compassionate people do exist in New York, he digs out his cigarette pack from the back pocket of his jeans and chucks it over. The next thing he produces is a lighter.

"Thanks," Dean mumbles.

He has to lean in close to let the dude light his cigarette. The close proximity runs roughshod over his already fraying nerves, but it also lets him get a whiff of the guy's cologne, spicy and understated. Expensive.

"I don't usually smoke. It's just been a . . ."

He doesn't know why he's trying to engage. The guy hasn't said one word, and it's not like Dean shouldn't be used to silences. The last eight years have been practice for adjusting to the empty places where people should be but aren't. Where they can't be anymore. Mister Model is throwing his game all out of whack by acting non-existent without the upside of actually _being_ non-existent.

Instead of making words like a real, functional adult, Dean waves his hand around vaguely in the air. The guy tilts his head to one side, the color blue glinting in the sun. It's damn hard not to flush under that intense stare.

"One of those days," he finishes lamely. "Anyway."

It takes a while, but tall, dark, and handsome finally speaks. His voice sounds like he just finished chain-smoking an entire pack out here. "You're one of the designers. Dean, I think. The one they don't like."

It's not like he didn't suspect that the other designers gossiped about him. But having it confirmed still stings. "Uh. They talk about me, huh?"

"Hm." The guy tilts his head back and forth in a _so-so_ gesture. "Not in particular. At least not in front of me. But it's obvious if you watch them. People only like what they know. If you violate that, behave unexpectedly, they treat you like an outcast."

The guy says it like he's handing down revelation from up-high. Instantly, it makes Dean feel kind of bad for the guy—though he's not so far alienated from normal social skills that he doesn't realize that annoyed would probably be a more rational response. People call him arrogant for the way he avoids everyone but he knows for damn sure he's never once sounded anything close to this guy. Dude acts like social ostracism should be something new and confusing for Dean, and his sage advice might be all that's standing between Dean and a plunging spiral into depression and an identity crisis.

What the guy doesn't know is that Dean's already done that spiral and dug himself out sideways into a brave, new hole in the world. In his experience, being alone is old hat. He knows exactly how he comes across. What his behavior looks like to others. He has Sam and his Psych Minor to thank for that.

This guy, the model, he didn't get to pick the shit people say about him. He's got to be one of the best models in the competition—maybe one of the best in all of New York—and there's not a chance he's going to last past the halfway point. As soon as his designer kicks the bucket, he's going to be out on his ass with her.

"Yeah. Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but whatever they're saying about me ain't got nothing on you. They got a killer rumor mill going about you. I don't know if you know that. Cas . . . Cas—"

The name is on the tip of his tongue. It's something kind of foreign-sounding. Whimsical. Like a stage name.

"—stiel. It's an angel's name." Castiel pulls a deep drag on his cigarette and contorts his mouth into a thing sharp and hard, laced with black amusement. "And I do know."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Castiel offers no follow up. Just silently continues to hold Dean's eyes with that same, blunt stare. It's uncomfortable, being the subject of that much scrutiny. It makes his skin crawl backwards. Raises goose bumps to the surface even though the lingering heat of the interview lights and the muggy afternoon air should prevent that. He does his best to ignore it, to not show how easily Castiel makes him want to slither out of his skin and down one of the sewer grates in the alley.

Another few awkward minutes of silence pass. Castiel continues his one-man ocular intimidation. Dean would start trying to lay bets on how long the guy can go without blinking, but that would mean looking in Castiel's direction and no. If he wants to be able to stay at least long enough to finish his cigarette, he's got to keep eyes front and center. One glance sideways and he's going to make some stupid excuse for needing to go back inside, and that is the last place he wants to be right now. This dirty, smoggy loading dock is his well-earned sanctuary for the moment.

Maybe he can at least distract Castiel from his stupid staring game.

"So, uh. We're not shooting a runway show today, are we?"

Usually the models are only around on runway days or for a couple hours in the afternoon to try on clothes. The fact that Castiel is here at all right now is unusual, and that earring is definitely not part of his normal model get-up.

"No," Castiel says. "Otherwise I would have taken this out." He flicks the silver hoop in his ear. "I'm here because I'm assisting with the production as well as participating in the competition. My sister is the production coordinator. She got me a place on the show."

Visions of Becky and her too-wide grins flicker on the backs of his eyelids like a bad acid flashback. "Is she the scary blond one?"

"No. The scary brunette."

"Oh." The memory of soft fingers linger on his knee like a ghost touch. "I don't know." He shrugs and takes another drag of the cigarette. "She seems nice."

"Yes," Castiel agrees darkly. "She often gives that impression at first. I don't know how."

It sounds so much like what a younger sibling would say, like something Sam might say to one of his friends about Dean, that a laugh startles free, raw in his throat and cramping in his chest from muscles ill-used. He can't remember the last time something made him laugh.

He tosses a weak glare towards Castiel for causing it. "Younger or older sister?"

A smirk lurks in one corner of Castiel's mouth. "Younger. By three years. But in my family, hierarchy is determined far more by professional success and reputation than by birth order. So of course, given our respective positions, I'm meant to be her indentured servant, beckoned when she needs me." Castiel gives a graceful flick of his wrist, his dramatic timing spot on.

Rumor around the set has it that he's been modeling since his late teens. That kind of stage presence must come naturally for him at this point.

"I'm her assistant unofficially," he adds, a weird tone-shift landing somewhere between awkward and earnest. "I'm not being paid for it. If. If you're worried about nepotism."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah. That—didn't actually occur to me."

Castiel blinks, once, twice, and then forces this purposeful exhale through his nose that takes Dean half a second to clock as Castiel's version of a laugh. He gives Dean a full body once over. "Clearly you're not from New York."

From anyone else here, that phrase would be an insult. But the way Castiel says it, the faint lines of amusement creasing the corners of his eyes, instead it sounds like—teasing? The driest, most demure sort. The realization is so startling that Dean kind of wishes Castiel were a bully instead. Like an alcoholic who loses his tolerance after years of sobriety, one friendly interaction sends his system into overdrive.

He nearly bites his tongue in half as his face flames up, heart galloping in his chest. "Um. Yeah. Well." Abort, _abort_. "Uh." 

Change the subject, idiot.

"Do you like working with your sister? Like—it must be nice? That she got you the job. Both jobs. My brother is the one who applied for me to come on this show. Fuck if I had any real . . . Uh." Just what he's admitting to and to whom occurs to him a second too late. "I mean, I'm real happy to be here and am driven to win."

"Interesting."

The fucked up thing is, Castiel says it like he means it. Like he does find Dean's Freudian slip _interesting_.

"And to answer your question, if the past two weeks dictate future experience," Castiel continues, "being Hannah's assistant means I will primarily be instructed to get out of the way, and secondarily be asked to hold things, and tertiarily be expected to follow her around while she forgets that I'm holding them."

Listening, Dean wets his lips, silently working them around the word _tertiary_.

"I also bring her lunch when she leaves it at home," Castiel adds, watching Dean chew over his vocabulary with an unreadable look. "It's not exactly thrilling. But it does give me time to study."

Castiel has a book nestled on the rail between his forearms. Tucking his finger in the crease to mark the page, he flips the front cover closed and angles it towards Dean's questioning gaze. The title reads _The Confessions of St Augustine_ , whatever the fuck that means.

"Huh," Dean breathes, having no idea what the right reaction is. Aren't models supposed to be, like, dumb? "Sound . . . intense? Is that like _Confessions of a Shopaholic_?" he tries as a joke. One of his old, cocky grins slips out by mistake, but Castiel doesn't seem to notice it.

"A little. If instead of being written by a 21st-century hipster with an unhealthy relationship to consumerism, it was written by a bishop in the fourth century detailing his sinful youth and eventual conversion to Christianity." He smiles smugly as Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm a student at the New York Theological Seminary School."

The janitor is going to need to scrape Dean's jaw off the concrete. "What, seriously?"

"Yes. Right now I'm working towards a degree in Youth Ministry. But I'm considering finishing the Master's program to become a priest."

" _Seriously_?"

"You sound surprised."

"Well . . . _yeah_. I mean. You're a model and a—uh." He catches himself in the nick of time before he starts spewing the bullshit the other designers like to whisper about Castiel. It's not right. Castiel isn't like Dean. Hasn't earned the reputation that trails after his name like a tin can tied to a bike wheel. "A production assistant," he amends, but it sounds weak and unconvincing even to his own ears.

"To be fair," Castiel says, popping out a smoke ring into the air with casual ease, "I think Hannah got me the position because she's concerned that without her constant supervision I might trip and fall into a needle."

Castiel says it as if it's nothing. As if it costs him nothing to reveal to a complete stranger the shames of his past. Dean doesn't know if that's incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Maybe Castiel thinks if he doesn't give a shit, he can convince everyone else not to bother either.

Dean never quite got the hang of that one.

"So, uh. You're—"

"Sober? Yes. I transitioned off methadone nine months ago." All innocent like he isn't spilling gut-wrenching secrets, Castiel blinks owlishly and signals to the cigarette smoldering between Dean's fingers. "That is my one final vice."

It's an act; it's got to be. From what Dean's heard—. "I was going to say _open_. Smart ass. About people knowing. You know. That stuff."

" _That stuff_ is called twelve years of heroin addiction," Castiel snaps back, not missing a beat. "And there's not much choice, is there? Once a video of you falling off the end of the runway at New York Fashion Week is one of the most watched videos on YouTube, it's hard to keep your drug habit a dirty little secret."

Reaching behind him, Castiel pulls out an iPhone from his back pocket and punches in the lock code. He presents it like an offer, gripped by the tips of his fingers so the screen hovers right at Dean's chest height. It's an older model, scuffed around the edges from use, with a tiny crack in the corner of the screen. The red of the YouTube app stares up at Dean, already open, a challenge waiting for an answer.

"Here," Castiel says, eyes hard and narrowed into thin slits. "Look it up yourself. _Most embarrassing moments in fashion_ is a good search term."

Dean has never heard of this video, has never seen it, and doesn't have any urge to change that now. Even if accepting the phone wasn't a violation of the contract he signed (no phones, no internet, no television access until the competition ends), watching what has to be Castiel's greatest failure in front of that man himself seems—wrong. Uncomfortable. Like he's playing right in the hand Castiel dealt him and that hand has the words _hypocrite_ and _asshole_ and _bully_ written all over it. It's not like Dean doesn't know something about living with secrets exposed against his consent.

Maybe it makes him a coward. He hasn't said a single thing to Marv or the other designers when Castiel's name erupts between whispered giggles. Maybe this makes him no better than the rest of them, preferring to listen to them mock Castiel behind his back rather than to stand here in plain view of the man and let Castiel show him his worst memory in a way Castiel chooses.

But it doesn't feel like this is Castiel's choice, either. It's not like Dean doesn't know the benefits of scare tactics like scathing humor and shock value. Nothing makes someone shut up faster than by speeding up how uncomfortable you can make them. He used a similar strategy on Sammy during those rocky, early years. Given Castiel's blunt stares and even blunter words, the offer of the phone sounds a lot more like a bluff than a legitimate request.

Gently, he pushes the device back to its owner. "No. Uh. That's okay."

Castiel re-pockets it with little more than a shrug, as if the whole thing doesn't phase him.

It's both depressing and weirdly irritating. Maybe this is how Sam feels after every one of their conversations. If so, the fact Sam didn't give up and dump his ass years ago is probably one of the stupidest choices Dean's ever heard and Dean is king of stupid.

For a few seconds, neither of them says anything. Dean is left with his purloined cigarette slowly burning toward its filter between his fingers and a thousand conflicting urges swelling warm and anxious in his chest. Clearly he should leave. The conversation won't reach some natural termination point, and Castiel doesn't want his company, doesn't want his sympathy. Shouldn't give a fuck about Dean or anything he has to say.

But he knows this feeling. Arguing with Castiel feels a lot like arguing with his own reflection.

"So." Flicking his cigarette butt into the alley, he shoves his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. "So I should probably head back now. But, uh."

Castiel may be an ex-junkie and kind of a dick, but he doesn't deserve to have his private shit spread over everything.

"Like. If you ever did want to tell me. About what happened, I mean. I guess I'd just rather hear it from you than watch some video. I don't know everything the other designers say about you, or how much of it is based on fact, but whatever happened, I don't think them talking about it is fair. We all got shit we hate about ourselves. Shit that we regret or makes us embarrassed or leaves us vulnerable. Whatever happened, it doesn't give them a right to be jerks about it."

Castiel stares at him, because of course he does, direct and unblinking, eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. Dean has no fucking clue what that expression means.

"Okay, so," he says at last, when the silence gets to be too much. His shoulders have hunched so high they're nearly touching his ears. "See you around, I guess."

All he can say is that he tried. If he's irritated by so much effort for so little outcome (pointless, _pointless_ ), he already knows that somewhere in Palo Alto Sam is suffering a wave of disappointment in him and doesn't know why. He's about to turn around and break for the door when the faintest of smiles quirks up a corner of Castiel's mouth. It widens, gummy pink appearing, scrunching up Castiel's nose, and stopping Dean in his tracks.

Castiel's whole demeanor changes when he smiles.

"You're really not a New Yorker, are you," Castiel says, all just— _sincere_.

His stomach gives a funny flip, startling out another laugh from him. "Oh, shut up."

 

* * *

 

The models enter the same time they usually do the next morning. Cole trudges up to the workbench without a word. Just stands there and waits while Dean strips the clothes from his mannequin and then disappears behind the privacy screen across the room.

He catches a glimpse of Castiel headed for Daphne's work station. Unlike on the loading dock, Castiel now looks like any of the other models. The piercing's gone from his ear and he's dressed down in a plain white t-shirt and dark, faded jeans. When he catches Dean staring, he gives a small two fingered salute. Before he can think better of it, Dean raises his hand to return it.

Bela rips her zipper at the last moment, and emergency repairs the crotch of her trousers with muslin. It results in her model looking like he's wearing a giant diaper when he walks the runway.

Daphne doesn't complete her look and sends Castiel down the runway wearing what only the very generous would describe as a crop top vest. Castiel still walks the shit out of the thing, oiled abdominal muscles gleaming and flexing under the lights with every sway of his hips. He sends the non-existent audience a wink at the end of the runway, his sudden grin bold and cocky even though he's basically shirtless.

Abby has been in the bottom almost as much as Dean has, her attitude with the judges working against her more than any real lack of skill. No one likes defensive excuses or someone who won't listen.

The three of them guarantee that for once Dean is safe. Though as he sits in the green room while they film the top three and the bottom three listening to the judges' comments, he can't help thinking about Castiel out there under the hot lights, expression neutrally stoic as he's moved around and appraised like a horse for sale. Maybe Castiel works so hard to sell her terrible clothes because he has some kind of killer work ethic. Or maybe it's a weird form of self-preservation because Daphne's the only designer so far who has been willing to work with him. Maybe it's a combination of the two. Whatever the reason still means it sucks that Castiel's head is going to be on the chopping block this week.

Dean has no love for Daphne's designs, but Castiel is good at his job. That first year after Dean left California, drifting aimlessly through the back roads of the Midwest with his sewing machine boxed in the passenger seat next to him, he thought a lot about what it might mean if he never got to sew again. If this new thing about him meant not just losing his family and the first few fragile roots of the first home he'd tried to put down, but if it meant losing everything.

Grief comes in a lot of forms. The idea that Cain had taken even that from him made him wish Cain would've just killed him instead. Like maybe he should stop taking the pills and let the end come, because just like a car without fuel, there was no way he could run with life being that empty. There were a few weeks there he thought about selling the old machine, or just leaving it in some second-hand shop for someone else to find, and driving himself off the nearest bridge. But then he found Duluth, and Frank, and somehow, somehow, by the tips of his fingernails, he clawed his way back to living something tolerable.

It's beyond shitty that everyone here is doing the same to Castiel, driving him right to the edge and draining his tank. Maybe Castiel has some backup plans in that Youth Ministry stuff, but he wouldn't have joined the competition if a part of him still didn't want to model. Daphne might be safe this round and then next one or the next, but she's not the type to make it all the way. Then everyone's going to close ranks and blacklist Castiel right out the last few years of his career.

It sucks. People suck.

 

* * *

 

They break for dinner while the judges deliberate, and then word comes that Daphne's been eliminated. Dean hangs back from the crowd and smiles sympathetically as she tears up and hugs everyone goodbye, but the regret he feels belongs with Castiel.

After Daphne leaves with a camera crew to shoot her last video diary, the remaining twelve of them file back into runway room and take their seats to film the next challenge reveal.

As though it's a completely new day (new week, new episode, whatever), Heidi emerges from behind the screen in a new outfit and greets them with a bright, "Hi, designers! Are you ready to find out your next challenge? Well, not yet!" She leans forward with a laugh, and claps her hands together. "It's a surprise! Tim's going to take you to a secret location tomorrow morning to tell you all about it."

"Yes," Tim continues. "And I think you're all going to find it _riveting_."

That's a pun if Dean ever heard one. The way Heidi theatrically groans just confirms it.

"Awful. Awful." She shakes her head at Tim, grinning like none of this was scripted, and then pulls up the black velvet bag she has clutched in her hand. "But first! You're going to pick your models. Claire, you won the last challenge so you'll be first."

Claire beams when it's mentioned she's won, though they don't get it on camera until the fourth take when the cameras are re-positioned to catch the designers' reactions to Tim and Heidi's patter.

The models file out on stage after a few more takes, each dressed in plain loose-knit pants and black t-shirts. Dean tries to catch Castiel's eyes, but Castiel stares straight ahead, shoulders bowed slightly forward, like he does every other time on the runway. Maybe he thinks the blank look makes him seem more appealing, an unmarred canvas for a designer to re-make in his image. Or maybe he's aware that now that Daphne's gone, he's halfway out the door himself and won't give anyone the satisfaction of looking upset about it.

"Models, remember, this is a competition for you too," Heidi chirps, rubbing it in, before she opens the floor up to Claire.

Sure enough, Claire stays with her current model, Victor. By the time only Cole, Castiel, and Gadreel remain on the runway, everyone but Dean and Marv have chosen their models. Benny draws Marv's name from the button bag before passing it to him, giving Marv the next choice.

"Gee, you know, as much as I'd love to work with you, _Asstiel_ , I prefer a model with a little more _balance_. Gadreel, my boy!"

Dean swears, _swears_ Marv mispronounced Castiel's name on purpose. What a childish dick.

Gadreel's cheek twitches as if in pain when Marv chooses him again, but not even insufferable windbags can destroy that Canadian urge to be polite. "Thank you," he murmurs, and walks off the runway.

That leaves Castiel and Cole.

"Guess I'm the last one," Dean says thinly as Marv passes him the button bag. He plucks the button with his name on it out of the empty bag.

Cole is staring at him, an expectant half-smile on his face. In the last three draws, Dean has never chosen another model, not once, and Cole has no reason to expect him to change his mind now. Especially not after a challenge where Dean was safe for once. But if Dean picks Cole, that means Castiel becomes little more than his sister's unpaid, unofficial assistant. It takes him out of the running for ten thousand dollars and potentially a spread in Marie Claire Man magazine. It means that everyone else here _won_ , and Castiel isn't anything more than who he was on the worst day of his life.

Dean's spent the last eight years living as that person. It sucks. Maybe Sam would say he's projecting or over-relating or some other fancy therapist term. But fuck it. He knows exactly where he'd be if Frank hadn't taken a risk on him, and a pine box in a cheap grave is a shitty, shitty Plan B. Like hell he'll do that to another person.

He knows the name he's going to say a second before it leaves his mouth. "Hey, Casti—uh. Cas—. Hey, Cas?"

Castiel jerks, as if startled, and slowly, slowly turns his head to lock eyes with Dean.

"You want to be my model?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Welcome, designers!"

Ninety minutes by van from Manhattan Tim Gunn stands in the middle of a broken down scrap yard, arms outstretched to greet them. His smartly-pressed, dark suit and white, welcoming smile make him look impossibly out of place. A camera crew stands off to one side, already filming.

The producers gave them nothing more than an address that morning for the location of their next challenge. Looking around, Dean doesn't know why they bothered. Finding a building number around here is about as useful as the fashionable heels some of the more hardcore designers (both female and male, surprisingly) insisted on wearing.

Icy morning fog clings to the faded facades of abandoned warehouses. The buildings huddle off to one side of the field, leaning into each other as if for protection from the spring chill. The fetid stench of algal bloom rolls off the river a few yards away. In the distance, an old oil freighter floats docked on the opposite bank, hull dulled to a rusty red.

More rust surrounds them. Old junk and construction materials stack in piles a storey high. Narrow walking paths curve around and between each clump, like little ant trails. Squinting into the sun, Dean spots a cabled tangle of old rebar, and used pieces of car engines, and something balanced on the top of a pile to his right that looks like it might have started life as a mattress. The sight blooms something a little like nostalgia, a little like familiarity through his chest.

Duluth feels like this place. Gritty industry and stagnant water and a calmer, colder breeze. Once upon a time, people here made things with their hands and earned their living through the sweat on their backs. There wasn't time for things like the worries of a big city; the people, the attitude, the condescension. They might as well be on his home turf as far as Dean is concerned.

Everyone else's faces must show their horror at where they are or what it promises for the next challenge because Tim laughs.

"Don't you recognize this historical place?" he jokes, sincere enough that it sounds adlibbed. "This is one of the last shipyards in New York."

Looking around again, Dean can see the connection to the sea now. Fat rivets the size of his head intermingle with old levers and knobs. Great iron ribs poke out from a couple places. Loose pieces of rope and plastic litter the ground.

Dad used to take him and Sam to junkyards like this when they were kids. Dean loves the Impala, maybe even more than Dad loved her, but new she is not. All those years on the road, all those breakdowns, with too little money to guarantee food on the table let alone repair jobs, and he got good at helping Dad scrounge for spare parts wherever they could find them.

"And in case you were still wondering, this is also where your materials come from for this season's unconventional challenge!"

Another round of groans and one smug, "Called it," from Meg feed the rolling cameras the proper amount of drama.

"You'll have two days for this challenge," Tim continues. "Your look must be at least two separate pieces, and include an accessory. We've supplied you with carts and oversized bags to gather whatever you need. You have ten minutes."

 

* * *

 

Because it makes absolutely no sense, Dean decides to use the pieces he salvaged to create a suit. On the loading dock the other day, Castiel had been wearing a button-down with jeans. The couple other times Dean has seen him helping out the crew, he's been dressed similarly—a little more polished than a plain t-shirt and jeans, but still relaxed, easy. Classy casual. The guy looks amazing sporting a waistcoat.

Tomorrow will be the first chance he'll get to interact with Castiel since model selection. Just how Castiel will feel about Dean picking him, he doesn't know. Sure, he kept Castiel in the competition, but that doesn't mean Castiel will be thrilled to work with him. Maybe if he shows Castiel he can make decent clothes that will help off-set some of his less pleasant qualities. It's a shot in the dark that Castiel likes suits, but it's all Dean has to go on right now.

By late afternoon he's managed to construct the beginnings of something like a trench coat. From a distance, the engine belts he's weaving together resemble leather or suede, and the added texture of the weave speaks to his aesthetic. Despite how quickly confidence can turn into dangerous egotism, by the time Becky calls the first group for dinner, he thinks he might kind of like how his design is turning out.

Eating with the other designers hasn't gotten easier in the two weeks he's been here. The only difference between the first meal and tonight is that the intermittent two weeks have accustomed him to the sense of awkwardness and paranoia. The break room is small, dominated by two circular cocktail tables for eating, and a long buffet table on the back wall that houses their food. Even being broken into separate half-hour shifts, there's too many people in the room to allow him to feel comfortable.

Now that he knows the loading dock exists, it seems a shame not to take advantage of it. He doesn't know if he can leave the set during a break, but forgiveness is always easier to ask than permission. Grabbing a sandwich, he takes the twelve flights of stairs at a run and hits the big metal exit door with a burgeoning sense of freedom.

And almost trips over his wayward muse.

Long legs stretch across the width of the open doorway, crossed at the ankles, a piece of tupperware and a book cradled between strong thighs. Castiel is squinting up at him, a disgruntled crease between his eyes. Dean can't tell if that expression is surprise or annoyance or both. The silver hoop is back at home in his right ear, signifying that Castiel is not officially on premises as a model.

"Jesus, do you just live out here or something?" Dean grunts, the surprise of seeing Castiel again so soon making the question come out harsh and brittle.

"It's plausible," Castiel says, jerking his chin up like a dare. "I'm forced to be here enough." Closing the book and pulling his legs back, he nods at the sandwich Dean's clutching. "And if you're trying to avoid people, maybe you should look for your own secret hiding spot instead of bitching about not being able to use mine."

The idea that Castiel might also be disappointed at losing his solitude—at _Dean_ encroaching on his personal space—sparks an irrational flare of hurt. Castiel is under no obligation to want his company. It's not like Dean did him any favors by choosing him. Castiel earned it by the grace of having such a strong walk and unique look. Dean did what anyone would've done, if only the other designers weren't so invested in the bullshit of Castiel's past.

He stands there for a few blank seconds, uncertain what to do. "Do you want me to leave?" The smoky night air makes his voice crack a little.

Castiel huffs a laugh. It stings the places in Dean that are already sore. Of course Castiel wants him to leave. Dean should want himself to leave. Staying away from people is the reason he came down here. But then Castiel is moving. Turning to lean his back against the wall, he opens the spot next to him for Dean to sit.

"You can stay." His eyes shift sideways, a sly humor in them that clashes against how still and stern Castiel otherwise keeps himself. "As long as you promise to stop looking so shocked and wounded when someone points out that you're being a hypocrite."

Somewhere Sam is punching his fist in the air in vindication.

Dean smiles weakly. "I know we don't know each other that well," he mumbles, folding himself down onto the newly open space on the concrete, "but you really don't know what you're asking of me."

Castiel makes another one of those huffing laugh sounds and pokes a plastic fork into his tupperware dinner. "All right. I'll consider myself warned. At least you're honest about it, I suppose."

"Years of therapy," Dean mutters, like it's still part of the joke, even though it's not.

Castiel hums in response, as if that suddenly explains some question he had. "How many years of torture did you do?" He asks it like that's something you can just go ahead and make small talk about. Like they're having some kind of fucking normal conversation.

Dean jerks his head to the side, mental alarm bells blaring. "Why? You want to know just how fucked up I am before you have to work with me?"

Admitting to how many years he spent battling to screw his head back onto somewhere approaching straight—hell, admitting that he knows what the inside of a therapist's office looks like, let alone that he spent a good solid four months broken down in tears inside of one—none of that is anywhere close to socially acceptable. The only thing copping to that kind of shit does is plaster a SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH ME sign on his forehead. As if that wasn't clear enough already. He might as well pull out his prescription bottles next and walk Castiel drug by drug through what his disease means: mentally, physically, socially, financially. It'll be like a surprise party, but instead of cake and confetti, it can be a parade of all of Dean's most shameful and disgusting secrets.

Except the laconic apathy with which Castiel regards his own problems seems to extend to Dean's as well. His head tilts all the way to one side, frowning down at the remains of his salad, like Dean's reaction is confusing and requires a lot of thought to understand.

"No," he says slowly. "I was wondering if other people truly do have a higher tolerance for self-help bullshit than I do. Or if that is a lie my sister keeps using to get me to continue to go every week. _It won't work if you don't try_ is very annoying logic, you see, because you can't actually argue against it."

Dean can picture Hannah saying that, her expression and her posture, even if her voice in his head sounds instead like Sam's and the millions of times he's said the exact same thing.

"And as far as I'm aware—" Castiel lifts his head to meet Dean's wide, disbelieving eyes "—I have to work with you regardless of personal opinion. Given that theoretically we're both mature adults and professionals in our fields and you _picked me_ instead of that walking snooze button, we should be able to interact—companionably."

 _Walking snooze button_ is such a great description for Cole that a few hysterical giggles break free against his will. Castiel's eyes crinkle at the corners in surprised delight.

"Companionably," Dean manages.

"Of course," Castiel agrees, nodding with fake gravitas. "We are very professional people. Hiding from the other very professional people on this very professional show."

He puts aside the remains of his salad to dig a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. From somewhere he produces a Bic, fingers graceful as he lights his post-meal smoke. Dean's so distracted watching him that he almost misses that the next words out of Castiel's mouth require a response.

"So. As a professional. Explain. Why did you pick me instead of Cole."

For some reason, it's not a question.

Dean squeezes his sandwich a little too hard in response. Half a cherry tomato escapes from his turkey sub and goes rolling into the darkness of the loading dock. "Uh." Right. _Your defensive coping mechanisms to keep people pissed off and at arm's' length remind me a lot of my own_ is a weird-ass response. "Because . . . I did? Does there need to be more of an explanation?"

"That's what I'm asking," Castiel insists, sounding frustrated and almost, _almost_ whining. He turns those blue-eyed laser beams on Dean again. "Cole is boring, yes, but you didn't seem bothered by that for the first four challenges."

If Castiel thinks that, then Dean must be a better actor than he thought.

"Oh, yeah, no. I was. I definitely was," he admits stiltedly, sucking a smear of mayonnaise off his thumb. "But I, you know. I have some—stuff. That makes me hard to work with. Cole was willing to roll with it. I didn't want to be, like. _Ungrateful_ or whatever for that."

He offers Castiel a deprecating half-smile to ease the awkwardness. All he gets back in return is a gulf of wide, guileless blue that seems to fill his entire vision.

"And now?" Castiel presses.

There is no _and now_. Castiel seems to be angling for something specific but, despite how tact appears to be missing from his internal registrar, Dean has no idea what the guy wants. His shoulders are beginning to ache under the sudden onslaught. Defending his choices is what he came out here to _escape_.

"And now—I don't know. I don't know; I guess . . . I guess I'm banking on you being willing to roll with it, too. Fair enough?"

Castiel makes an aggravated sound and looks away. When he speaks, the words come out slowly, like he's talking to someone either very young or very stupid. "What I am wondering is, is if your change of heart had anything to do with the fact that, had you not picked me, I would be eliminated from the competition."

Oh. Well, yeah. He wags his head from side to side. "There was some of that, yeah, sure. I mean, you're a good model. A great model. I don't know shit about modeling, and even I can see that. You didn't deserve to go home."

That stare is back again, eyes narrowed at him, calculative. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle to attention. So obviously that wasn't the right thing to say either.

"I don't need a savior, Dean," Castiel pronounces, hard and serious but not cold. There's pride there, hard-won and intractable. "For much of my life, people have tried to save me from myself in various ways. But I accept the consequences of my actions, even those consequences that might seem unfair. I'm not a charity case. I don't need to be rescued."

A bite of turkey nearly goes down the wrong pipe. "What?" He coughs. "Dude—no. Definitely not."

That can't be what Castiel thinks. But Castiel isn't looking at him anymore. Backlit by the street lamp on the corner, the line of his profile shows his chin lifted in defiance, jaw jutted out in stubborn silence. It makes something in Dean's stomach ache for him.

"Hey." Putting down his sandwich, he dusts his hands together, searching for something to do with them. They wind up in his lap, fingers tangling uselessly. "Look . . . That's not why I did it. I maybe know something about feeling like that. Like you're nothing but a loser. Like. I swear that's the only reason my brother applied for me to come on this stupid show. He thought I needed the kick in the ass. And, I don't know, he's probably not _wrong_ , but . . . But I get how it sucks when people look at you and don't see a person. When they only see your failures."

Sam's never gotten that part. That that's how it feels. Dean never thought the words existed to explain it. But now they're out there, floating between them like the smoke from Castiel's cigarette. At least in this moment it doesn't seem that difficult a concept to explain.

"So, like. I just wouldn't do that to you. That's not how I see you." The last comes out in a whisper.

After a while, Castiel says, "I don't know if you're aware of this, Dean, but you're very unusual for a human being," and then offers Dean a cigarette.

 

* * *

 

"Bobby, Dean, Marv, you three have the highest scores," Heidi recites for the second take to the cameras. "Abby, Crowley, Meg, you three have the lowest scores. One of you will win this challenge, and one of you will be out."

Standing next to Castiel on the runway, Dean could not be prouder of his look. The black engine belts of the trench coat offset the tarnish on the trousers perfectly. He spent the entire second day piecing each skinny leg together from individual squares of sheet metal. In effect, it creates a subtle check pattern, rust contrasting against gunmetal grey. A dark blue tie loops around a shirt collar constructed from the striking keys of an old typewriter he salvaged. Up close, it highlights the blue in Castiel's eyes. To complete the look, he had the hair people style Castiel's hair into side-swept bangs, emphasizing his sideburns and strong jaw. Throw in a pipe and some naval stripes, and Castiel looks like he could be on the cover of a yachting magazine from 1966.

The extra connection to sailing flew under his radar until Castiel pointed it out in the work room earlier that day, running his fingers over the sleeve of the coat with a strange, pleased little half smile. But now that Dean can see it, he loves it. Feels unapologetically silly with how gleeful it makes him, like when he was six and Mom surprised him with the entire Hot Wheels race track set for his birthday.

It's a lost cause trying to hide his bumbling enthusiasm from the judges when they ask him to explain his look and what it's made from.

"So, uh, yeah. So I just had a lot of fun making this," he says in summation, rubbing at the back of his neck with a shy grin and trading a quick look with Castiel.

Heidi laughs along with him. "We can see that! It's nice to finally see some personality from you, Dean."

"It's far easier to evaluate your aesthetic," Nina adds dryly, "when we can _see_ it. This is like an intriguing tease. I want to see more from you."

"Yeah!" Heidi teases. "So stop hiding! Show us what you got."

In the final decisions, Abby goes home. Dean comes in second. Bobby gets the win for his use of door panels and water-proofing. His design reads couture, like a piece of wearable sculpture. After being in the bottom three for so long, not a bone in Dean's body can resent losing to it.

 

* * *

 

The high of being in the top three bleeds over into the next challenge. The only downside is he can't share his good fortune with the man who made it possible. They won't be using models this challenge. Instead they're instructed to re-think the corporate uniform, and give real businessmen who volunteered to be on the show a makeover.

He draws Richard Roman, President of Roman Enterprises, who frustratingly lives up to his name of being _dick_. During the afternoon fitting, Roman completely rejects Dean's outfit, contradicts himself about a million times from what he said during their earlier consultation, insults Dean's design experience, and walks away from the conversation while Dean's in the middle of asking a question. Before Dean can get any clarity about where the fuck to go next, Roman heads for the exit with a smarmy grin and a condescending, "But you keep up that moxie, kiddo."

The judges declare the runway show a disappointment and act hesitant to declare a winner. They hold back four low scores, and two high scores, with a warning to Bobby that he's only safe because he has immunity. Dean winds up scoring somewhere in the middle of the pack and retreats to the green room with the others.

Bela gets sent home for her overworked update on chinos and a polo shirt. Crowley wins, and doesn't seem to need anyone to congratulate him given how much he congratulates himself, loudly, even after they pile into the vans to head back to the apartments for the night. Rowena sends him death glares that Dean's not sure the cameras can sufficiently capture.

 

* * *

 

He gets Castiel back on the next challenge.

They're given a budget of only 75 dollars to create what the guest presenter calls active wear and Dean mentally keeps calling "shit normal people wear everyday" wear. He's wound up with a lot of plain cotton jersey and denim, not the most inspiring of fabrics, but he refuses to bitch about it like Marv and even Benny are doing. This is the kind of stuff that should be their bread and butter as designers, t-shirts and jeans at an affordable price.

Tim seems to share his sentiments during the critique, and listens intently while Dean stumbles through a choked-back explanation of how he got into design, making stuff just like this for his kid brother so he didn't need to wear Dean's ill-fitting hand-me-downs. They're probably going to try to make him a feature for this episode, thanks to the accidental waterworks display. Jody and her crew have been hovering nearby for the last hour, waiting just in case he starts to do something more interesting than pinning panels together for a black waistcoat for Castiel, detailed with a surprised bloom of red in the back.

Castiel is hovering too, elbows leaning against the workbench and chin propped up in his hands, watching Dean silently. He isn't sure when Castiel showed up. Unlike the other models who greet their designers with a hug and fake praise for their newest design, Castiel never made a peep when he arrived. Just took up his position and commenced staring. One second he wasn't there and the next Dean glanced over and there were those eyes on him, unblinking. The earring is missing, which means Castiel's officially being a model right now, despite the lack of doing absolutely anything.

Pinning the raw edge of the left arm hole into place so he can hem it later, Dean shoots him a look. "Are you doing that to try to freak me out or does being creepy just come naturally to you?"

"Most people find this habit deeply disconcerting," Castiel says, words muffled somewhat by the fact that he won't lift his chin off his hands. "My sister says it makes me look like a lobotomized serial killer."

Dean snorts at the colorful description. Though after cheating another look in Castiel's direction, he's got to admit Hannah isn't entirely wrong. "So this is just how you make friends and influence people?"

"I was wondering what your reaction would be, given that you keep surprising me. I also will admit that I've been enjoying watching you. "

In no way should that cause the wash of affection and flattery that floods through him. Castiel isn't _flirting_ with him; he's just being Castiel. He lobs a scrap piece of cotton at Castiel's head. "Okay, 1980s-Sting, but how about you do something helpful now? Like try stuff on."

"You're just saying that to get me naked," Castiel says, coming around the workbench.

It's a joke. It's got to be. Even though Castiel doesn't mean anything by it (doesn't mean it, can't _know_ ), Dean blanches. The fact of the matter is he's starting to like Castiel. Which means the safest thing for both of them would be to stay away from each other. Liking someone is one half step behind caring for that person, and the only thing he can give someone is a compromised immune system and an early death.

He has to put down the pin cushion and take a deep breath to get his hands to stop shaking. When he looks up, Castiel is watching him with ill-hidden concern.

"Dean?" he starts, but Dean shakes his head. He lets out a shuddering breath.

"No, look, sorry, it's fine. I'm fine. I just . . . I don't like—touching people," he forces out. "People touching me."

"Oh," Castiel says. "Are you—" Dean braces himself as Castiel hunts around for the right word. There are so many options: sick, diseased, _broken_. Except the word that next comes out of Castiel's mouth is, "—Mormon?"

Dean stares at him. Castiel furrows his brow.

"What? Don't Mormons have issues about . . . Wait, am I being rude? Is that rude to ask? My sister says I have problems with tact."

"No shit," Dean wheezes. His chest has gone all tight. He has no idea if he wants to laugh or if he's going to have a panic attack.

Jody's camera team is standing one work station over. Right now they're focused on filming Claire and Victor, but there's always a chance that someone might be recording Castiel's politically incorrect commentary. Though by missing it, they're also depriving America of the cutest, nonplussed, baby bird look Castiel now has on his face.

"Sorry," Castiel says, and then frowns. "But don't they?"

 

* * *

 

Somehow he winds up in the top three again for his look. Castiel radiates casual confidence in his inexpensive separates, owning the runway. Bobby gets sent home, and for the first time Dean feels sad about losing someone. Bobby may not have been the most creative of designers, but he could pattern like no one else. That kind of background knowledge made him a strong competitor.

It also means their apartment is down to two members. Hannah drops by the green room briefly to inform them that tonight Marv and Crowley will be moving into the apartment he shares with Benny.

After they finish saying their goodbyes for the cameras and Tim reminds Bobby how much they're going to miss him, they're shuffled back into the runway room to film model selection and the next challenge reveal.

Crowley steals Kevin away from Benny, despite having placed high otherwise with Gavin. It's the only real switch of the evening. At this point, most people seem to want to stick to working with their same models.

Maybe it's bitterness at being forced to move rooms, but when Marv's name gets drawn before his from the button bag, he sends Dean this _look_ that's almost gleeful in its malevolence. Then he smiles. Dean doesn't get Marv's game until Marv fixates on Castiel, standing a few bodies left of center. With growing agitation, he listens as Marv then proceeds to contemplate out loud the pros and cons of switching to Castiel.

There are a lot of cons.

 _A lot_ of cons.

A muscle in Castiel's jaw starts to tick halfway through the list, fingers balling into fists as he's forced to stand there and stare ahead in silence as Marv berates him for his balance, his professional commitment, his sexuality, and the age lines starting to crease Castiel's mouth and forehead. He doesn't outright call Castiel a dirty, deviant addict who slept around to get where he is, but he might as well have, given how many times he strongly implies it.

In the end, he chooses Gadreel again, like Dean and probably everyone else in the room knew that he would.

"Cas!" Dean calls when the button bag comes to him, giving Castiel what he hopes is an encouraging smile to mitigate some of Marv's attack. Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement, but a line of tension keeps his spine ramrod straight as he exits the runway.


	6. Chapter 6

All through the ride back to the apartments, Dean stews. It's one thing to have to see Marv's stupid face every day in the work room, with his weepy eyes and sagging jowls. It's entirely another to be forced to live with the bastard.

What Marv did to Castiel was uncalled for. There's being a douche on accident because you can't help it, a process Sam would tell you Dean is intimately familiar with, and then there's being a douche as a disguise for being a bully. To get satisfaction from making other people suffer in order to glorify yourself.

Marv's always been one of the worst gossipers about Castiel. At first, Dean had been willing to write it off as one of those industry things. Marv's lived here in New York for the last twenty years, though he's not from here originally, and Frank warned him about the type of people you get in fashion in the big cities. Everyone's a queen diva with an ego.

Marv seems eager to make sure everyone knows how he earned his crown. He's been telling anyone who's willing to stand still for more than two minutes about how he already owns his own label, some brand with a pretentious name Dean's never heard of before. _Word of God_ or something stupid and religious-y like that. Judging from what he sends down the runway, his aesthetic is all floral brocade and nostalgic throwbacks, like something someone would design after doing expired peyote while staring at a Norman Rockwell painting. It's kitschy and sappy and _fake_ , and Dean doesn't understand why the judges don't eliminate the asshole, let alone how he keeps winding up in the top three. Now it's clear that mocking Castiel is just part of his overall childish shtick.

Well, not anymore. Whatever Marv's problem is, it's going to stop now.

Dean's toiletries get the brunt of his temper as he prepares for bed, restless as he waits for the shit show to start. The producers allotted forty-five minutes for Marv and Crowley to pack and haul their belongings down the hall. Instead of draining his anger, the additional time feels like it's feeding his frustration. None of them will be allowed to go to sleep until they get footage of the happy homecoming, and Dean hopes the camera crew is prepared to give the home audience their money's worth. Marv and his fist need to have a talk.

Worried eyes track him as he stomps around the room. Benny hasn't said anything yet, just does his own nighttime ritual before climbing onto his bed. But Dean knows something's coming. He's seen that look a thousand times on Sam's face, the bullshit one that says, _Please reconsider_ and _I only want the best for you_.

Finally, he can't take it any longer. "What?" he snaps, turning around to face Benny. His arms stretch out to the sides, open and empty. _See, officer, no weapon_.

Benny keeps watching him with that knowing look, head tipped down and lips pressed together. Like he knows Dean's about to do something completely stupid. "You sure you want to be angling for a big blowout on our first night?"

"With Marv?" Dean scoffs. "Hell yeah. I didn't ask to sleep next to the guy. You saw what he did to Castiel tonight. All that bullshit about his attitude and, and climbing up the ladder _on his knees_. Like Marv's never had a dick in his mouth."

Benny winces. "Could've done just fine without that image, thanks. As much as I'd never begrudge anyone a little love in their life . . ."

"Marv probably lectures his partners the whole time," Dean theorizes. Relief twists in his chest when Benny summons a small smile at the joke.

"All I'm saying," Benny continues, "is that you might want to think through starting something when there's cameras to record every instant of it. Especially when it comes to Castiel. Don't get so mired in his shit that it drags you down too."

Chewing on his lip, he quickly filters through the various options for how to take that. Benny's a pretty good guy, with a sweet wife, and an awesome brand. There's got to be a reading of that that doesn't sound like Benny's taking Marv's side. Like he thinks Marv is _justified_ or some bullshit for picking on Castiel like that.

It's hard to find an alternative.

Jaw tight, he eventually forces out, "You don't think Castiel deserves someone to stand up for him?"

Benny shakes his head, holding up his hands in supplication. "Not saying that. Just saying that you might want to be sure you got all the facts. Castiel's been in the business a long time, and he's got a reputation about a mile long. And there ain't no one to blame for much of that but himself. The ones best acquainted with him might think a little teasing isn't undeserved."

"It's _not_ ," he balks, "a 'little teasing'."

"Cameras might say something different, brother," Benny says, all soft, accent thickening. "Might be wise to think about limiting how much of an opinion they get to have. Not a lot of help you're going to be to Castiel if you turn him into another scandal. Or turn yourself into one under his cause."

He stares at Benny, but that seems to be the total of Benny's advice. If Dean confronts Marv while they're filming the move-in footage, no way is that not winding up as a capstone to the episode. They might even try to sell it as a dramatic cliffhanger. All that's going to do is raise a lot of questions about why Marv's attacking Castiel and why Dean's defending him. Right after the episode airs, anyone with an internet connection and a social media account will go right for that video of Cas falling off the runway. Benny's right: he can't let Castiel end up as a punchline on E! Entertainment Tonight.

 

* * *

 

So, okay then, he comes up with a different plan. Benny agrees to help, albeit with some reluctance that Dean is pretending is due to the lateness of the hour and not some lack of sympathy for Castiel on Benny's part. Benny's a good guy.

It's after midnight by the time the camera crew leaves. They shot for about an hour, all useless tape of Marv and Crowley competing for who could contribute the most eye-rolling commentary and win the most face time. Dean doesn't know how they've managed to live together the last few weeks without anyone dying—most likely their other roommates. Both of them seem to have mistaken melodramatic one-liners for wit.

It takes another half hour to get both of them to shut up and into bed, everyone eager to rush headlong into sleep before Charlie and her morning crew will wake them in a short five hours. Dean has another idea.

When the clock flips over to two, Benny clambers out of bed and locks the apartment door while Dean hits the switch for the overhead lights between the beds. Halogen yellow flares throughout the room.

Crowley bolts upright with a curse, eye pads sliding down his green face mask to stick to his cheeks. Marv grumbles to life slowly, a string of drool dangling from his chin.

"What in bloody fuck is bloody going on?" Crowley demands.

With Benny standing guard at the door, Dean sees no reason to beat around the bush. He stares down Marv. "An intervention. Now that we have some privacy."

A wriggling, simpering smile worms its way across Marv's mouth. Crowley thrusts a finger out in defense. "You have no proof I stole that yard of silk from Mood."

Dean jerks his head around. "What? Fuck you. Wait. Did you? Shut up. This isn't about you."

"It's about poor, criticized Castiel," Marv gushes, "and his latest victim."

"What?" For a few seconds Dean's mouth works uselessly, words trapped in his throat as if Marv slapped him. "I'm not his fucking _victim_. Jesus."

Tucked into what used to be Aaron's bed across from his, Marv places a hand over his heart in mock condolence. "It's such a tragedy when they can't even see it."

Dean feels his fingers curl into fists. "He's my fucking model, _asswipe_. And a damn good one at that. That shit you pulled tonight was bullshit. And it's going to stop right now. You owe him some respect."

"Oh, do I?" Marv challenges, an unreadable glint of excitement in his eyes. He leans forward in the bed, elbows resting on his knees. The shift of his gut tugs at the grey t-shirt he wore to bed, giving Dean the unwanted sight of a few scraggly, graying chest hairs peeping through the collar. Like a cartoon villain, Marv steeples his fingers beneath his chin. "It seems to me we have a philosophical difference of opinion on what exactly _Asstiel_ deserves."

"Don't call him that," Dean growls.

"You may have fallen for his act of the wretched, recovering addict. _Oh, woe is me. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_."

Marv makes a sign of the cross, and it takes Dean a second to realize he's mocking Castiel studying at seminary school. The high falsetto Marv parrots also sounds nothing like Cas.

"Not everyone is that gullible," Marv continues in his own voice. "Some of us have known him throughout the twenty years of his career. He's always been arrogant and unpopular. Late for fittings or auditions, missing shows, passing out behind stage and needing that over-worked sister of his to cover for him. Do you know he once went missing for five days during Milan's fashion week, only to turn up in some hospital in Rome on an overdose? It made the Italian papers."

He knew that Castiel had a history of drug addiction. And, sure, the guy can come off as a little aloof and prickly, but there's a certain charm to that. Dean wanted to think of it as shyness, the same discomfort he feels around people. Somehow he assumed that falling off the runway all those years ago at New York Fashion Week was the culmination of the worst of Castiel's addiction. That literally falling so low is what inspired him to get better. To hear Marv talk about it now, it sounds more like that was one moment in a pattern of fucked up moments where Castiel let heroin dictate his decisions.

He doesn't say anything, but Marv doesn't seem to need help interpreting his silence.

"Ah! So Castiel didn't share those details with you. Did he tell you about his niece and how his sister was forced to send the girl to live with her estranged father after Castiel almost burned the apartment down when babysitting her? And I believe he was supposedly on methadone already at the time."

Marv watches him for a reply, but Dean's face must say it all.

"No," Marv simpers, smug and hateful. "Of course he didn't."

Fuck. Dean didn't even know Cas had a niece. He thinks of Hannah then, what a terrible position that must have been for her, needing to choose between taking care of her kid and taking care of her recovering brother.

Images of Sam being forced to make the same kind of choice swim across his vision. There was a girl back in California, back before Dean pulled off his great escape. Sam was totally gaga for her, stopping to stare at ring displays and asking Dean things like how young was too young to get married and how long should you date someone before you tell them you love them. When Dean finally called eight months later from Duluth, Sam hadn't been very forthcoming with the details. Just said they'd broken up and it was mutual and he wanted to focus on finishing up college and going to law school.

Her name had been Jess, he thinks.

The irony is Dean had known how it was going to play out before it happened. That's part of what drove him to leave California in the first place. As long as he remains a problem, Sam's never going to have a fair shot at a normal life. Sam's never going to be able to hold down a relationship or, fuck, have kids. Dean wouldn't be able to go anywhere near them. Sam's always going to need to split his attention, to juggle Dean's crap on top of his own crap. That's no kind of life. At least not a fair one.

The idea that Castiel might have faced a similar situation with his sibling, got confronted by that same fear, and _lost_ , makes a lump form in his throat.

He swallows around it. "You don't know the fire wasn't some kind of accident. Faulty wiring. Product recall."

The fire that took his mom supposedly started thanks to a wall sconce pulled from the market for running too hot. It burned right through the wallpaper, into the wood. They didn't know about it until years later, too late for a lawsuit.

"Accidents seem to like to follow Castiel around," Marv suggests. "When he crashed and burned at Fashion Week, was that an _accident_? Was it an accident that he destroyed that designer's entire brand? Was it an accident that he wiped out the careers of every other model walking with him in that show?" Marv's eyes bulge as his voice grows louder. Spittle flies from his mouth. "All those people reaped the consequences, and the root cause was _Castiel_. I doubt you've even seen the video to know what you're defending."

Dean shakes his head in jerky negative. He hadn't wanted to hurt Castiel even more by watching it in front of him. "Cas offered to show me, but I, I . . ." His mouth works limply, empty of words.

Marv chuckles as if there's something deeply pleasing about that. "That's almost precious. Playing on your good graces like that to save himself the trouble of you watching it. Now he can claim that he offered to show you, and _you_ refused. Well, I think you should disregard such manipulation and take a look."

Suddenly leaning over the side of the bed, Marv digs around in his abandoned slacks to produce a phone. Dean can't move.

Benny takes a step away from the door in alarm. "We're not supposed to have that."

"That's breaking the contract!" Crowley objects.

"Oh, come _on_ , now." Marv rolls his eyes dramatically as he sits up. "Let's not pretend we're all goody two-shoes here. It's just a little something I borrowed from Gadreel. It's called multitasking. I still have a label to run, you know."

"No," Crowley exaggerates. "You don't say. It isn't as if you haven't mentioned it _ten thousand times_."

Tapping appropriate information onto the screen, Marv leans across the space between their beds and slides the phone in front of Dean. The video is already queued up and playing.

"Skip to the end, if you want," Marv advises. "He's number one."

He shouldn't be watching this. It's not fair to Castiel. It's not _right_ in this room full of people who already judge him. But he can't look away. The audio is tinny and feeble without headphone, but he can just make out the narrator's voice as the intro music fades away and a countdown starts. The title of the video calls it the Ten Best Bloopers in Fashion. A lot of the clips feature models tripping over too-high heels or stumbling into each other as they pass on the runway. Number four shows an interview clip with a model who has mistaken an ostrich for a type of dinosaur, proclaiming that the feathers he's wearing were recovered from a fossil.

Bloopers Three and Two border on tasteless. Decorative candelabras fence the runway on either side. One model has a long cloak dragging behind him. It catches on the base of a candelabra, pulling it down and catching the edge of the cloak on fire. The model doesn't notice the flames slowly creeping up his back until he's nearly finished with his walk. The clip cuts just as his panicked shouts dump him sideways into the audience. Two shows the thread of the model's grungy, destroyed knit skirt snagging on something at the start of the runway. Every passing second becomes a debate whether she'll risk abandoning her walk prematurely or risk exposing herself once she's realized her skirt is unraveling.

This video is something that after a couple beers and a few hours browsing clickbait Dean might've found funny. But knowing someone put each of these clips together—someone made this, purposefully, maybe spent hours on it—and that they chose Castiel to top the list, it drains all the humor. All Dean can focus on is how the model's face on screen looks terrified, how the guy before her screamed from the flames, how she looks like she's going to cry from needing to choose between possibly losing her career or a thousand people seeing her private parts.

Jesus. _Jesus._ Why do humans use the pain of others for entertainment? What the fuck is wrong with everyone?

The muscles in his shoulders helix tighter as a giant one twirls across the screen.

A shadowy runway opens the clip, shot by someone in the second or third row of the audience. An unknown male model does his turn at the end of the runway. The low angle doesn't show much. A pair of feet belonging to the next model encroach the frame. They stagger in a jumble start-stop pace, like the person can't remember how to walk. Then the camera pulls back so the model's whole body can be seen.

The after-image of Castiel's gaunt face bleaches itself into Dean's retinas. When he closes his eyes, this is the only thing he will see for the next few nights. Pale and pasty, sweating under the white lights, Castiel looks like every junkie cliché. Bordering on skeletal, twenty or even forty pounds lighter than he is now, his cheeks have hollowed his cheek bones into high ridges, his jaw too wide for the slender, emaciated neck holding it up. He's wearing some sort of terrible housecoat, little yellow flowers dancing everywhere on the print like a bad acid trip. Makeup echoes the design on his left cheekbone, a tiny yellow daisy emphasizing the unnatural pallor of his skin.

But it's not just the clothes that make him look awful. His hair is long and stringy, dyed a terrible, bleached blond and plastered against his forehead. His eyes look like deep bruises, sunken into his skull. Dean can't even tell if they're open. Despite the shitty quality of the phone screen, it's obvious how bad Castiel's hands and knees are trembling. His legs seem barely able to hold him up.

Castiel lurches when he reaches the end of the runway, over-balancing on the stupid, ridiculous platform shoes he's wearing. Dean's heart hits the back of his throat, thinking that this is it; this is the moment of truth. But, no, no, it's okay. Castiel manages to right himself at the last second, arms swinging out for balance. He takes a couple more steps sideways, swaying, unsteady. But it's clear now that he's too disoriented to come out of this unharmed, confused as to where he should go or how to move his body to get there. In the few final seconds of video, he tilts his head back to gaze up at the lights, like he's searching for something, open mouthed and glazed eyes. A point of reference or an answer or maybe even God. He looks—lost. Penitent. Like he knows what's about to happen and there's nothing in his power to stop it. With the next step, Castiel's foot just misses the surface of the runway. The heel of his shoe hits the edge instead. Castiel tumbles sideways, down, down, down in arc, the clangor of collapsing folding chairs ending his fall.

Whoever made the video added a laugh track to each clip.

It's not funny at all.

 

  
_art by[plays-with-shadows](http://plays-with-shadows.tumblr.com/)_


	7. Chapter 7

The guest judge for the next challenge is short, with frizzy light-brown hair and a weak chin. The guy skips behind Tim, bulging the ball of a sucker against his inner cheek and smirking at everyone's designs.

It's a one day challenge to create a new take on scrubs. The winning design will be shown on the hit soap opera _Doctor Sexy_ , known for its creative use of music and the fashion of its main characters. Gabriel Laufeyson is the co-creator with his wife, Kali. Dean has looked up their pictures from People's Choice Awards and various events about a thousand times on the internet. He wishes he had the energy to tell Gabriel how much he loves his show and all of its stupid, ridiculous, addicting plot lines. In some of his darkest moments, that show has been what got him through to the next day.

But after battling sleep all night, the only thing keeping him on his feet—he gave up on coherent after missing Benny's fourth attempt to ask if Dean wanted to use the bathroom this morning to brush his teeth—is the large Styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on his workbench and a thin, straining urge to talk to Castiel. The look in Castiel's gray-hazed eyes right before he fell haunts him, hovering behind every thought like the creeping disquiet that lingers after a nightmare.

Tim and Gabriel listen patiently as he bumbles through a vague explanation about his color blocking idea, formless words he can't remember two seconds after he's said them, and drifting silences on the tail end of his sentences. At some point during Dean’s monologuing, he catches out of the corner of his eyes Gabriel trying to steal a sip from his coffee. It sends Dean’s heart galloping, words evaporating completely. Blind with adrenaline, he smacks the cup to the floor, spilling coffee everywhere. Gabriel stares at him like he might either laugh and call Dean crazy, or accuse him of attempted bodily assault. Thankfully, Tim exists to diffuse the weird moment and points out that the scrub pants seem a little too tight in the ass to work in a real hospital. Gabriel pops his sucker to the other cheek and shrugs.

"Come on, Gunn. We're talking about Doctor Sexy here. It's all about _dat ass_ , am I right?"

Overall, it’s a long, tiring morning.

 

* * *

 

Models don't appear until late afternoon for fittings, and then Castiel isn't among them.

Dean spends the first ten minutes valiantly trying to convince himself that Castiel's absence is no more than a coincidence. Hearing from Marv last night the complete discography of Castiel's greatest hits has probably just left him paranoid. The fact that Castiel missed appointments and turned up late to things when he was using heroin doesn't mean anything here. He doesn't know when Cas quit—if he went through rehab, if he has chips that celebrate six months or one year or two years sober—but he must know how to deal with one bad day. Marv picking on him during model selection wouldn't have sent him back to the needle.

He's fine, Dean tells himself, eyes glued to the long hand of the clock as it ticks down each second Castiel remains missing. The image of Castiel's wasted face, that tiny daisy on his cheek, won't leave his head.

It's not the Castiel from the video who barges through the workroom doors twenty minutes later. He's soaked with rain and out of breath, as if he ran from the subway station. But a healthy pink flushes his cheeks, and blue eyes target Dean immediately, alert and bright.

He's also dressed far more conservatively than he usually does for a fitting. The black collared shirt, buttoned to the neck and tucked into dark, pleated slacks, belong to someone older, someone formal and severe. The physical hallmarks Dean has come to find familiar, from the messy hair and bristles of stubble that usually line Castiel's jaw to the faint pockmarks of old needles that spot the inside of his arms, have been cinched tight and erased. Even his face looks different, the usual laconic, sardonic amusement he associates with Castiel hidden behind something flat and blank and serious.

Dean feels like he's meeting a stranger, a different one compared to the person in the video, but still someone that makes him ache.

Castiel drops the book bag straining its strap next to the workbench. It hits the floor with an audible thud.

"Sorry. That I'm late. There was rain—and then I missed my train, and I—" Castiel cuts himself off with a grunt, frustrated, speech patterns stilted and clipped. He runs a hand over his hair, slicked down in military neatness. Dean can see the agitated energy in him, straining for an outlet, instead locked up stiff and tense in Castiel's spine. He won't meet Dean's eyes.

Dean takes a deep breath. "Cas . . ."

"I went—to school. I had—I had to go to school. I took the semester off, to help with filming, but this morning, I, I . . ." Castiel jerks his head hard to the side, negating that thought. "I belong there," he murmurs after a moment, like purging poison from a wound. "I don't belong here. I see that now."

 _You belong wherever makes you feel happy and appreciated_ , Dean wants to say, but of course doesn't. Life isn't simple like that.

Instead he swallows and jerks his head towards the stairs. "I, uh. You know, I could go for a cigarette right about now."

Sharp slices of blue cut across to him. "You could start buying your own, you know." The words are acerbic, but Dean can see it in his eyes, that dark flicker of playfulness sparking back to life. "And you're cutting into your work time. You won't be able to fit me until right before the runway if we spend the time slacking off now."

"Good thing I'm a fucking awesome tailor then," he says, and Castiel huffs one of those non-laughs, and one of the knotted ropes of worry unclenches in Dean's chest.

"Ridiculous, eccentric artists," Castiel fake-bitches, but they're moving down the staircase, jumping steps two and three at a time in a spontaneous race.

 

* * *

 

Rain pours outside when they reach the final landing. The thick metal door of the loading dock angles inwards, propped open with an old-fashioned wooden door stop. The patter of rain and scent of wet concrete warps the landing, rending the familiar strange and drawing the space smaller and closer together.

Dean watches the shadowed reflection of droplets pattern the wall, as Castiel drops down to sit on the last step of the landing. Dean also watches him. Studies the stretch of black material across Castiel's shoulder blades, the thick muscle in his shoulders, the vulnerable vertebrae revealed at the back of his neck as he bows his head forward to dig two knuckles into his brow bone, like he has a headache coming on. His toes touch together, pointed outside towards the rain. 

When they were kids, Sam never wore his sadness quietly. It meant silence, yes, but a loud silence, pointed and brooding and Sam’s mouth screwed around a sulk. Dean never knew how to deal with that, only knew that it fell on him _to_ deal with it. So he resorted in those moments to being as obnoxious and pestering as possible. It probably wasn’t mature at fifteen, which means it’s probably even less mature at thirty-two, but it’s still his default setting when it comes to seeing someone in pain.

And he hadn't noticed before, but Castiel is wearing a pair of old, ugly brown sandals, bulky red and grey socks clashing with the leather.

Like in any universe any of that is okay.

"Hey." He flicks his fingers at Castiel's feet and settles next to him on the step. "Dude. What is up with that. Sandals with socks. You know better than that."

Castiel looks down at his feet and wiggles his toes. "My boots got soaked in the storm. I always carry these in my bag, just in case. They're my favorite shoes."

"They're like two centuries old and falling apart."

"Dean." Castiel tips his head up sideways at him, working by touch to unravel the cellophane off a fresh pack of cigarettes and tossing the silver inner wrapper. "They're one of the first things I ever bought for myself. With my own money. For no other reason than because I wanted them."

Dean props his chin up with his hand to listen, not bothering to try to hide his small smile at the note of pride in Castiel's voice. "How old were you?"

"Hm. Seventeen? Eighteen?"

"So what you're saying is they're vintage."

Castiel grins and shakes his head. "What I'm saying is that they have more meaning than just shoes."

One of the straps on his left sandal is held down with duct tape.

"Like—ugly? Falling apart? An affront to the very concept of fashion. That kind of meaning?"

An elbow hits Dean in the ribs. "You're a dick. Anyone ever tell you that?" Castiel teases, lighting his cigarette, and then freezes when he realizes that he just touched Dean.

He realizes it before that fact even occurs to Dean.

"Sorry," Castiel says, wide-eyed and wary, and moves his arm away, placing a few inches of space between them that Dean hadn't realized didn't exist until now.

He regrets its absence almost immediately.

"It's okay," he whispers, and doesn't understand why it isn't a lie. _I like being close to you_. "It's not like you got, like, cooties or anything," he tries, weak and off his game, and gets rewarded with another one of those quick-fire grins.

"No. Just an addiction problem. And an entire industry that won't let me ever forget it."

Rage at Marv's commentary flares again in Dean's chest, burning lower than last night, but colder with Castiel sitting right next to him. "Marv's an asshole. The things those guys say—they're wrong about you. You're not like that."

"I am, though." He says it so simply. Not resigned. Not embittered. Just blunt, harsh honesty. "I'm an addict. I fucked up my career. Everything Marv said about me—being unprofessional, being unreliable. Fuck. Even using sex to land jobs a couple times—it's all true. That's what makes it so damning. They don't need to lie because I did all that. I _did_ that. Even if I wanted to, I can't dismiss it as people being assholes."

"Marv's still an asshole," Dean murmurs, but Castiel shakes his head.

"That was my life for a long time, Dean. It's not—pretty. And I'm not proud of it." His voice hitches on a small, quick intake of breath. "But it was my life. Maybe it's fair that they won't let me forget it."

It's not fair. Everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone deserves a chance to be happy. But those are empty platitudes, and Dean can't bring himself to inflict such an insulting dismissal of Castiel's struggle.

"Is that what—seminary school does for you?" he asks instead, after a second. "Lets you forget? Lets you—" he gestures up and down at Castiel's buttoned-up state "—get to be someone else?"

Castiel tips his head and hums, not strict agreement, exactly, but not disagreement either.

Dean pillows his arms on his knees. "And that's really what you want?"

Castiel smokes, breathing in deep, and doesn't say anything for a long time. Dean watches the smoke plumes float out the loading dock door, watching the rain splash in the alley beyond, and tries not to think about very much. Maybe it wasn't a fair question.

"God—forgives," eventually comes a small, desperate voice from against his side. "God—accepts. All faults. All sins. And loves you anyway. Unconditionally."

The tears prickling his eyes more rightly belong to Castiel, but Dean decides he'll hold onto them for him for now. He tucks his forehead down against Castiel's shoulder and breathes in and out, heart-sore and heart-sick and aching. Aching for something. Aching for the beautiful man next to him to never hurt, to never feel unloved, or broken, or damaged by his past. He wants the same things for himself.

He can feel Castiel's surprise at the touch, feels it in the way Castiel shifts and tenses slightly for a moment before he settles again. Castiel leans his head against his. His cheek just kisses Dean's temple. Neither of them says anything.

They sit like that, together, until the rain stops.

 

* * *

 

He winds up safe for his black and white color-blocked take on scrubs.

Despite being unable to try it on Castiel until four hours before the runway, it fits him acceptably well. His ass looks amazing, despite Tim's concerns. Gabriel gives a wolf whistle when Castiel does his turn. Dean grins when he sees the almost imperceptible rueful shake of Castiel's head in response. It's the only time Cas has broken character on the runway. The top, Dean thinks, could be an inch or two longer. It hits Castiel at his natural waist instead of closer to his hip line, throwing him a little out of proportion. But that might be more his own inner critic overreacting than a genuine concern. The design itself is the problem, eye-catching and well-constructed, but not amazing. Not deserving of a win.

Earlier in the competition, when he kept landing in the bottom three, shamefaced failure would follow him into the green room, as if he had let down the people in his life that will be watching this on TV in a few months. Yesterday, though, he called himself a tailor in front of Castiel instead of a designer. And his outfit _is_ well-tailored, despite Dean constructing it blind without the benefit of a fitting. It still represents his aesthetic. Maybe Sam will be disappointed in him, but Dean can't find it to be disappointed with himself. He made clothes that are well-constructed, comfortable, and a complement to the person wearing them. That's always been his primary ambition.

Benny follows him into the green room, also called safe. They sit on opposite ends of the couch and wait to see who will come in high on a win and who will come back sad and restrained from a loss.

Naomi, it turns out, gets sent home. And then that's it. They're officially past the halfway mark. Of the original sixteen designers, nine have met the dreaded double-cheek kiss and _Auf Wiedersehen_. Seven designers remain, and Dean is one of them. He might actually have a chance to show at Fashion Week.


End file.
